.IS 


UC-NRLF 


REESE  LIBRARY 

OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


/  QO 


91014  .  Oats  No.   ^85" 

i — u — u — u — j — urfa^r—»-  X-u — u— u— i? 

S 


SONGS  FROM  BOHEMIA 


BY 


DANIEL    O'CONNELL 


EDITED  BY  INA  D.  COOLBRITH 
BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  BY  WM.  GREER  HARRISON 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

A.    M.    ROBERTSON 

1900 


COPYRIGHT,    1900 

BY 
MABEL  ASHLEY   O'CONNELL 


THE  MURDOCK  PKHSS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH    .  i 


AFTER  DEATH 181 

ALONE 159 

ANGELUS,  THE 163 

ANGLER'S  CONFESSION,  THE 59 

ANITA 57 

ARCHERY  IDYL,  AN 136 

ASHES 15 

AT  REST 17 

BAL-MASQUE 211 

BERRYING 161 

BUSINESS  OF  THE  FUTURE,  THE 205 

BY  THE  LAKE 70 

BY  THE  SEA 52 

CAMP  INDOLENCE 13 

CENCI,  THE 183 

CHAMBER  OF  SLEEP,  THE 231 

CHRISTMAS  DREAM,  A 66 

CHRISTMAS  REVERIE,  A 22 

COLOR  OF  GOLD,  THE 121 

CRASTINE  VIVE  HODIE 36 

Cui  BONO? ii 

DEAD  IN  THE  MINE 130 

iii 


91614 


Content* 


DEAD  WARRIOR,  THE 113 

DEATH  LIST,  THE 176 

DIFFERENCE,  THE 199 

DIGMAN  PASHA 94 

DRAYMAN,  THE 187 

DROWNED 89 

DRUNK  IN  THE  STREET 26 

ENAMORED 30 

EXILE'S  MUSINGS,  THE 227 

FALLEN 62 

FAREWELL no 

FAREWELL  THE  PIPE 49 

FAVORITE  TOAST,  THE    , 74 

FIFTY  YEARS  AGO     .   .   . 221 

GOD'S  FORGOTTEN  POOR 170 

IN  MEMORIAM 50 

IN  MEMORY 153 

IN  SIR  HUMPHREY'S  HALL 165 

IN  THE  COLISEUM 76 

INTO  GOD'S  HANDS 119 

IRISH  TRAMP,  THE 33 

Is  LIFE  WORTH  LIVING  ? 217 

JOVINA:  A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SAN  CARLOS  MISSION    38 

JUST  AS  OF  OLD 224 

LA  GRIPPE 101 

LAND  OF  THE  NEVER  WAS,  THE 84 

LAST  POOL,  THE 128 

LEGEND  OF  THE  HAZEL 213 

"LITTLE  HUT  UPON  THE  BEACH," 195 

LOVING-CUP,  THE 191 


Content* 


MARKET-DAY 189 

MARRIAGE  A  LA  MODE 92 

MARY'S  CAT • 215 

MAY  IDYL,  A 9 

MISSION  DOLORES 123 

MISSION  ROSES 147 

MONTEREY 108 

MUTATIONS 103 

MY  FAVORITE  BOOK 179 

NATURE  AND  MAN 91 

NEW- YEAR  THOUGHTS 47 

OLD  SAILOR,  THE 132 

ONLY  A  WOMAN'S  FACE  .  , 106 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  NILE 134 

ON  THE  BRINK 201 

OUTCAST 138 

REFUGEE,  THE 151 

RIVER'S  TEACHINGS,  THE 219 

ROMANCE  AND  REALITY 54 

ROSE  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE,  THE 208 

ROSE  AND  THE  WlND,  THE 157 

ROVER 139 

SINGER,  THE 125 

SING  ME  A  RINGING  ANTHEM 45 

SONG  OF  THE  FIELDS 203 

SOUTH  WIND,  THE 185 

SPANISH  VISTA,  A 72 

STATE-HOUSE  BELL,  THE  (1776) 80 

SWEETHEARTS  AND  WIVES 24 

THROUGH  SUN  AND  CLOUD 174 


vi  Contents 


TOM  MOORE 96 

TREES 141 

TRUE  PHILOSOPHER,  THE 144 

Two  RIVERS 87 

WAITER,  THE 104 

WANDERERS  FROM  THE  SEA 99 

WERE  I  TO  DIE  TO-NIGHT 197 

WHICH? 229 

WILLOW  TREE,  THE 28 

WINE  PICTURES 19 

WITH  THE  DEAD 64 

WORKERS,  THE 116 


DANIEL    O'CONNELL 

THE  biographic  gift  is  rare,  and  at  best  its  possessor 
can  only  depict  the  man  as  he  appeared  to  him.  I  have 
often  thought  that  a  biography  should  be  like  a  composite 
picture,  made  up  of  the  several  views  of  the  subject. 

The  publishers  of  this  work  have  asked  me  to  write 
a  brief  sketch  of  Dan  O' Council's  life.  I  am  quite  sure 
the  request  is  made  because  of  my  love  for  the  man,  and 
not  because  of  any  very  special  fitness  for  the  work.  I 
knew,  and  I  think  understood,  O'Connell.  Our  friend 
ship  covered  a  quarter  of  a  century  of  California's  growth. 
I  saw  him  under  all  the  conditions  of  life.  I  knew  him 
as  poet,  litterateur,  athlete,  humorist,  and  Bohemian ;  and 
the  more  I  saw  of  him,  and  the  better  I  knew  him,  the 
more  I  loved  him. 

His  good  humor  was  inexhaustible,  his  nature  sunny, 
and  his  temper  exceptionally  sweet. 

But  under  the  jester's  garb,  beneath  the  habiliments  of 
humor,  there  was  a  nature  strong,  deep,  and  extremely 
reflective;  a  mind  that  dealt  with  all  the  great  problems 
of  life,  that  dared  to  question,  that  dared  to  ask  why. 

O'  Connell  was  a  true  Bohemian  in  the  highest  sense 
of  that  much  misunderstood  word.  He  had  an  abundant 
faith  in  the  providential  impulses  of  his  friends,  who  never 
failed  him.  The  cares  and  worries  of  ordinary  life  passed 


him  by  as  one  immune.  No  man  ever  saw  O'Connell  in 
despondent  mood.  He  was  the  sun  itself — comforting 
others,  he  had  no  time  for  regrets.  He  was  in  love  with 
Nature,  and  she  was  very  generous  in  her  gifts  to  him. 
He  had  a  magnificent  physique  —  which  he  kept  always 
in  condition.  He  was  an  excellent  boxer,  a  capital  wres 
tler,  a  splendid  swordsman,  a  great  angler,  and  loved  all 
kinds  of  outdoor  life.  Had  he  not  been  a  Celt,  he  would 
have  been  a  gypsy. 

Bohemian  as  he  was,  he  knew  nothing  of  idleness, 
mental  or  physical.  His  pen  was  ever  busy  with  the 
things  of  life;  his  mind  was  ever  in  the  dreams,  hopes, 
passions  that  do  not  belong  to  mere  materialism,  but 
which  are  the  environment  of  the  poet.  But  the  cumula 
tive  art  was  abhorrent  to  O'Connell.  His  desire  to  spend 
far  exceeded  his  capacity  to  acquire.  It  would  follow  that 
he  would  frequently  find  himself  in  short  straits,  and  that 
his  table  would  be  decorated  by  suggestion  only.  I  have 
dined  with  him  when  the  "banquet"  was  almost  entirely 
intellectual,  and  the  simple  meal  was  made  luxurious  by 
the  wealth  of  his  humor  and  the  beauty  of  his  thoughts. 
He  was  an  inventor  of  humor,  genial,  loving  hits  without 
a  suggestion  of  rancor.  His  laugh  was  a  benison,  his 
smile  an  inspiration.  To  be  with  him  was  to  be  happy. 

The  rich  organ-like  tone  of  his  voice  was  a  moral  tonic, 
bracing  one  up  to  deeds  of  love. 

He  had  no  enemies,  because  he  would  not  permit  any 
man  to  be  out  of  harmony  with  him. 

With  all  his  humor, —  indeed,  because  of  his  humor, — 
O'Connell  was  a  reverent  man,  and  the  profound  things 


Biographical  &tutc& 


of  life  were  sacred  to  him.  Born  in  beautiful,  historic 
Glare,  in  the  old  town  of  Ennis,  one  of  the  most  romantic 
spots  in  a  land  of  romance,  son  of  a  distinguished  lawyer, 
Charles  O'Connell,  grand-nephew  of  the  great  Irish 
patriot,  associating  with  the  brightest  and  best  in  his 
native  land,  O'Connell  had  every  advantage  in  his  en 
vironment.  Naturally  he  would  sympathize  with  youth's 
fair  dreams  of  a  people  lifted  by  song  and  oratory  from  a 
position  of  dependence  to  the  alta  of  hope,  the  lofty  pin 
nacle  of  freedom,  and  his  Celtic  heart  went  out  in  patriotic 
songs  which  were  echoed  throughout  his  native  vale. 

O'Connell  in  himself  connected  the  family  of  Derry- 
nane,  the  home  of  the  great  Liberator,  with  his  own 
family  at  Ennis.  The  young  lad  was  always  a  welcome 
visitor  to  Derrynane,  where  his  quick  wit  and  heart-born 
humor  made  him  one  of  the  family. 

O'Connell  greatly  resembled  the  orator  in  physique 
and  vocal  expression.  There  was  the  same  quality  of 
voice,  the  same  musical  expression,  the  same  Celtic  inspi 
ration.  Both  loved  and  spoke  the  language  of  their  fathers 
—  a  language  rich  in  liquid  beauty,  powerful  in  its  strength, 
grand  in  its  dramatic  use,  falling  upon  the  ear  of  the  Celt 
as  the  songs  of  the  gods. 

O'Connell' s  early  education  was  directed  by  the  Jesuit 
Fathers,  whose  training  left  a  profound  impression  on  his 
mind,  evidenced  by  his  keen  appreciation  of  the  classics 
and  of  all^  phases  of  philosophy.  His  life  at  the  Jesuit 
College  in  Dublin,  though  brief,  must  have  been  full  of 
delightful  incidents;  for  all  through  his  wandering  career 
he  never  ceased  to  speak  in  loving  terms  of  what  he 


regarded  as  his  Alma  Mater.  He  must  have  drank  deeply 
from  the  loving-cup  of  youth  in  his  college  days,  and  we 
can  well  believe  there  was  never  a  heavy  hour  with  his 
companions,  nor  a  weary  moment  with  his  friends  in  the 
old  college.  A  fatal  accident  to  his  beloved  mother  and 
sister,  who  were  drowned  by  the  upsetting  of  a  coach  in 
the  Grand  Canal  reservoir,  brought  him  back  to  his  home. 

From  the  home  of  the  mourner,  O'Connell  was  trans 
ferred  to  Clongowes  Wood  College,  the  chief  establish 
ment  of  the  Jesuit  order  in  Ireland,  where  he  remained 
for  three  years.  There  he  absorbed  Latin  and  Greek 
and  caught  the  passion  for  literature  which  influenced  all 
his  life. 

His  father  was  offered  a  commission  in  the  British 
Navy  for  his  son,  and  the  boy,  always  an  enthusiastic 
lover  of  the  world  of  waters,  left  the  shades  of  classic 
Clongowes  to  become  a  toiler  of  the  seas.  He  became 
a  middy,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  believe  that  he  was  a 
most  welcome  addition  to  his  mess.  His  frolics,  his 
escapades,  his  wit,  and  above  all  his  splendid  temper, 
made  him  the  idol  of  his  brother  middies.  He  saw  all 
sides  of  the  world  during  his  sea-going  days,  and  his 
visits  ashore  were  always  the  occasion  of  legitimate  mirth 
and  boyish  jollification. 

A  bachelor  uncle  of  O'Connell's,  resident  in  New 
York,  induced  the  sailor  lad  to  pay  him  a  visit.  The 
fascination  of  the  New  World  led  O'Connell  to  abandon 
the  sea;  but  the  death  of  his  uncle  changed  his  prospects 
in  the  city  of  wealth,  and  he  migrated  to  San  Francisco. 

Here  he  found  his  Mecca.     The  freedom  of  thought 


Bioiyrapfjtral 


and  impulse,  the  generous  disposition  of  the  people,  the 
thousand  and  one  charms  which  no  one  can  explain,  but 
which  all  appreciate,  captured  his  youthful  imagination 
and  held  him  in  gentle  bonds  all  his  life. 

His  earliest  days  in  California  —  days  of  undoubted 
happiness — were  spent  at  Santa  Clara  College,  then  under 
the  presidency  of  the  Rev.  Father  Varsi,  a  man  of  great 
culture,  noble  nature,  and  most  charming  manner. 

It  was  natural  that  O'Connell  should  drift  into  journal 
ism,  chiefly,  perhaps,  because  in  that  profession  he  found 
so  many  bright,  genial  companions,  so  many  brilliant  fel 
lows  whose  Bohemian  appreciation  of  life  and  its  myste 
ries  found  a  ready  response  in  his  own  nature. 

To  the  journalistic  class  the  Bohemian  Club  owes  its 
origin  and  its  splendid  success.  O'Connell  was  one  of 
the  founders,  and  remained  all  his  life  the  truest  and  best 
exponent  of  its  social  ideas.  He  towered  high  in  Bohe 
mia,  upon  which  he  never  lost  his  loving  grip  nor  a 
moment  of  its  allegiance,  and  to  the  last  he  was  Bohemia. 

Hundreds  of  bright  men  passed  into  Bohemia  and 
out  into  the  grave,  but  to  O'Connell  alone  was  rendered 
the  last  tribute  of  the  great.  That  which  contained  the 
noble  form  of  him  whom  we  loved  always,  was  placed  in 
the  Green  Room  of  the  Club,  and  his  mourners,  from  all 
classes,  reverently  looked  upon  their  beloved  and  wept 
and  passed  away. 

O'Connell' s  life  as  a  journalist,  dramatist,  novelist,  and 
poet  was  too  large,  too  full  of  incident  and  pathos  to  be 
told  in  a  fragmentary  way.  His  place  in  literature  must 
be  described  by  some  other  pen.  The  man  as  I  knew 


Biographical 


him  is  my  topic,  but  his  life-work  demands  the  attention 
of  the  gifted.  That  he  had  a  place,  a  distinguished  place, 
in  literature  must  be  accorded.  That  he  is  not  more 
widely  known,  that  his  works  are  not  more  generally 
demanded,  is  readily  understood.  O'Connell  was  su 
premely  indifferent  to  the  commercial  side  of  art,  and 
could  not  avail  himself  of  even  legitimate  advertising. 
He  wrote  for  his  friends.  He  wrote  because  the  message 
in  him  demanded  utterance.  His  message  was  noble  — 
his  readers  must  determine  the  character  of  its  utterance. 

O'Connell,  like  many  kindred  artists,  delighted  in 
delicate  cookery.  He  was  a  natural  chef,  and  the  dishes 
which  he  prepared  were  odes,  madrigals,  songs,  hymns, 
as  the  fancy  took  him.  He  wrote  a  charming  work  on 
the  etiquette  of  eating,  and  he  cordially  disliked  the 
slovenly  feeder. 

He  was  attached  from  time  to  time  to  all  the  dailies, 
and  most  of  the  weeklies,  and  his  style,  always  Celtic, 
his  ready  wit,  and  versatile  pen  gave  his  work  a  distinc 
tion  at  a  time  when  San  Francisco  rejoiced  in  a  legion  of 
exceptionally  brilliant  men. 

His  "Bluff  King  Hal,"  a  delightful  opera,  which  he 
wrote  in  collaboration  with  Dr.  H.  J.  Stewart,  his  drama, 
"The  Red  Fox,"  his  novel,  "A  Special  Deposit,"  in 
which  he  collaborated  with  J.  V.  Coleman,  are  of  the  class 
of  work  that  deserves  to  live.  But  his  fugitive  pieces, 
his  good-natured  satire,  his  merry  conceits  —  these  not 
being  framed  between  boards,  linger  only  in  the  memory 
of  his  intimates.  Could  they  be  collected,  in  them  would 
be  found  a  library  in  which  all  phases  of  life  were  presented. 


fefcetcj 


He,  jointly  with  Henry  George,  founded  the  Evening 
Post,  and  to  his  fertile  fancy  we  owe  the  birth  of  the  Illus 
trated  Bohemian,  which,  unhappily,  refused  to  live. 

For  thirty-three  years  O'Connell  sang  to  the  people  of 
San  Francisco.  Occasionally  he  wandered  into  other 
spheres,  but  always  returned  to  the  city  of  his  love  to 
renew  his  allegiance.  He  was  once  lured  away  to  the 
island  kingdom  of  Hawaii  when  Kalakaua  reigned. 

Between  the  monarch  and  the  poet  there  was  instant 
friendship,  and  with  the  chivalric  tendency  of  the  Celt, 
O'Connell  threw  his  gauntlet  at  the  world,  challenging  all 
who  dared  to  see  Kalakaua  with  other  eyes  than  the 
champion's.  But  Hawaii,  with  all  its  charms,  was  only  an 
incident;  O' Council's  life  and  work  were  here. 

O'ConnelPs  home  life  was  singularly  happy.  In  1874 
he  married  Miss  Annie  Ashley,  the  daughter  of  Senator 
Delos  R.  Ashley.  With  kindred  tastes  and  a  boy-and- 
girl  love,  which  endured  all  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  their 
union  was  perfect.  A  large  family  made  the  household 
a  small  world  where  love  reigned.  O'Connell' s  children 
worshiped  their  genial  father,  and  it  is  to  that  filial  devo 
tion  on  the  part  of  his  family,  and  the  desire  to  honor  his 
memory,  that  this  book  owes  its  birth. 

In  his  "  Lyrics,"  of  which  he  published  a  volume,  the 
true  poet  speaks  his  best  thoughts.  Here  we  have 
O'Connell  himself,  singing  his  Celtic  strain,  tenderly 
touching  us  to  tears  or  laughter  as  the  humor  took  him. 

Strange  coincidence,  the  last  of  his  songs  —  the  last 
that  he  sang  —  the  last  in  this  work,  was  written  just 
ten  days  before  his  fatal  illness.  In  the  "Chamber  of 


8  Biographical  &feetc& 

Silence,"  O'Connell  unconsciously  spoke  his  farewell 
message  to  his  world  —  said  good-by  to  loving  friends, 
and  entered  by  anticipation  the  silent  mansion  where 
death  reigns. 

Broken  down  by  the  burden  of  a  great  grief,  his  wife, 
the  dear  companion  of  so  many  years,  lingered  here  only 
long  enough  to  say  farewell  to  her  many  friends,  and  then 
joined  her  husband  in  the  land  that  is  hidden  from  ma 
terial  eyes,  where  love  and  life  are  one. 

W.  G.  H. 


SONGS  FROM  BOHEMIA 


A    MAY    IDYL 

THROUGH  pleasant  vales  the  streamlets  course; 

The  babble  of  a  summer's  day 

Fills  all  the  fragrant  fields  of  May; 

The  wild  flowers  here,  and  there  the  gorse, 

Are  stirred  with  breezes  mild  and  sweet, 

Fair  carpeting  for  Summer's  feet. 

Ah !  who  that  rests  beneath  the  trees 

And  drinks  in  Nature's  holy  calm, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  freshing  balm 

The  teeming  earth  exhales,  but  sees 

In  all  those  gracious  things  the  hand 

Of  Him,  the  artist  of  them  all  ? 

The  brook,  the  wood,  the  swelling  seas, 

The  thunder  of  the  waterfall, 

The  birds  that  dip  and  spring  and  rise, 

The  gracious  sun,  the  azure  skies, 

Are  picture  limned  for  men  to  praise 

The  Artist,  while  in  Nature's  ways 

From  dawn  of  day  to  set  of  sun, 

They  walk,  and  mark  the  work  well  done. 

9 

B 


Who,  then,  shall  sit  in  endless  gloom, 
The  shadow  of  the  soul  within, 
And  brood  on  ruin,  wrong,  and  sin, 
And  let  the  vapors  of  the  tomb 
Embrace  him  like  a  cerement, 
When  Nature's  summer  sacrament 
Awaits  him  in  the  field  and  wood,  — 
Is  for  him  by  the  shining  flood 
To  stir  the  current  of  his  blood, 
And  bid  him  look  above  and  praise 
The  Power  that  guides,  nor  ever  strays 
From  clemency  to  us,  but  makes 
This  summer  landscape  for  our  sakes? 

Then,  weary  toilers,  put  aside 
The  petty  schemes,  the  nets  you  weave 
With  thoughts  of  hate  and  jealous  pride, 
And  hand  in  hand  walk  forth  with  May, 
And  drink  the  incense  of  the  breeze, 
And  list  the  lessons  of  the  trees, 
And  live  in  peace  one  perfect  day. 


GUI    BONO? 

As  A  traveler  belated,  who  still  follows 

The  windings  of  the  wood,  and  hopes  to  see 

At  length,  beyond  the  dense  and  tangled  hollows, 
The  dying  sun  illume  the  open  lea, 

But    meets,    instead,    thick   brake    and    growing 

shadows, 

Then  sinks  upon  the  damp  and  trackless  clay, 
And,  weary,  dreams  of  open  fragrant  meadows, 
And  wakes  and  sleeps,  and  longs  and  moans  for 
day, 

Is  he,  who  stored  with  wealth  of  garnered  learning, 
Would  solve  the  mystery  that  wraps  him  round, 

And  dream  that  unswayed  science,  cold,  discerning, 
Can  pass  beyond  this  clay- encircled  bound. 

He  reads  the  stars,  he  measures  every  distance 
That  lies  between  each  planet  and  the  earth; 

The  globe  itself  can  offer  no  resistance, 
But  yields  to  him  the  story  of  its  birth. 

But  when  he  grapples  with  his  own  soul's  mystery, 
A  wall  unyielding  rears  its  bulk  between; 


12  Cui  Bono? 


All  else  surrenders  long-restrained  history, 
This  only  stands  a  grim,  impervious  screen. 

We  live,  we  die  —  so  much,  no  more,  is  given: 
From  dust  we  spring,  return  again  to  dust. 

And  ties  are  made,  and  dearer  ties  are  riven, 
And  trust  is  true,  and  oft  betrayed  is  trust. 

What  good,  I  ask  you,  is  this  vain  undoing? 

What  good  this  fruitless  measurement  of  years  ? 
The  old  beliefs  may  perish  —  the  pursuing 

Can  only  find  its  goal  in  nameless  fears 

That  we  may  perish  with  the  tree  and  blossom, 
And  be  no  more  in  any  time  or  place, 

But  form  one  atom  of  Earth's  mighty  bosom, 
One  particle  upon  the  parent's  face. 

What  good  ?  Ah  me,  who  cares  for  the  hereafter, 
If  only  here  we  taste  the  hour's  delight  ? 

The  world  is  full  of  song,  and  wine,  and  laughter; 
The  day  is  ours  —  be  happy  until  night. 


CAMP   INDOLENCE 

OUR  camp  beneath  a  shady  oak, 
The  sand  a  carpet  at  our  feet, 

The  bay  before  us,  and  around 

The  summer  breezes  fresh  and  sweet. 

Here  all  the  day  we  lie  and  dream, 
Nor  read,  nor  speak,  but  lazily 

Look  out  upon  the  waves  and  think 
On  all  the  secrets  of  the  sea. 

The  ships  sail  in,  the  ships  sail  out, 
White  sea-gulls  hover  here  and  there; 

The  fisher's  song  from  far-off  beach 
Comes  softly  on  the  evening  air. 

At  night  the  drift-wood  fire  is  piled, 
It  seams  the  dark  with  crimson  bars; 

Its  sparks  shoot  up  a  glittering  shower, 
In  yearning  for  the  distant  stars. 

This  is  another  world,  indeed, — 
A  world  of  deepest  peace  serene, — 

Where  all  the  cares  of  troublous  years 
Come  to  us  only  as  a  dream 

13 


14  Camp  Unbolence 

From  which  we  have  awaked,  to  find 
The  perfect  peace  of  perfect  rest  — 

The  home  that  Fate  for  man  designed, 
Close,  close  on  Mother  Nature's  breast. 


ASHES 

BUDS  and  blossoms,  and  life-renewal, — 

Strong,  passionate  life  in  Nature's  plan; 
Corn  upspringing,  and  full  brooks  rushing, 

Torpor  alone  in  the  heart  of  man. 
Stagnant  and  dull  and  beyond  revival, 

The  once  quick  pulses  now  sad  and  slow  ; 
Spring  joyfully  breathes  on  the  moldering  ashes, 

But  their  bright,  fierce  fever  no  more  shall  glow. 

Buds  and  blossoms  and  leaves  outstarting, 

Promise  of  harvest  and  promise  of  wine, 
Only  the  human  heart  lies  dormant  — 

Dormant,  athirst  for  the  thrill  divine, — 
The  olden  thrill  that  awoke  its  music, 

And  bade  it  leaf  with  the  leafing  tree, 
Bud  with  flowers,  with  streams  expanding, 

Swell  out  and  onward  to  life's  great  sea. 

Is  this  the  goblet  that  once  could  gladden? 

This  discord  music?  these  wan  lips  red? 
To  some  sepulcher  bear  both  cup  and  woman, 

Let  strains  be  sounded  to  please  the  dead. 

15 


16 


Ah !  the  wine  is  sweet  and  rich  as  ever, 
The  lips  as  tempting,  the  heart  as  true, 

'Tis  the  heart  alone  that  has  turned  to  ashes, 
The  bay  to  cypress,  the  rose  to  rue. 

O  Mother  Nature,  if  life  's  worth  living, 

Once  more  I  crave  you  that  glorious  sense 
Of  high  endeavor  and  ancient  passion, 

With  its  strength  of  life  and  fire  intense. 
When  grief  was  greater,  and  love  was  deeper, 

And  music  clearer,  and  grape-juice  bright, 
And  the  buoyant  years  were  unflecked  by  shadow, 

But  all  was  purpose  and  hope  and  light. 

Must  we  ever  linger  while  others  hasten? 

Must  we  be  sighing  while  others  sing? 
Is  the  wine  of  life  for  us  exhausted? 

And  winter  chill  us,  though  it  be  spring  ? 
No  more  for  us  is  the  rosy  dawning: 

The  sun  creeps  downward  —  we  mark  its  rays; 
But  O  for  the  strong,  rich  flush  of  morning 

That  lit  the  splendor  of  other  days! 


AT    REST 

WEARY   of  the  rivers,    and  the  verdure   of  the 

meadows ; 

Of  the  sky's  unchanging  azure,  of  the  sea's  un 
tiring  hymn; 
Of  the  glories  of  the  landscape,  with  its  sunshine 

and  its  shadows; 
Of  the  bustle  of  the  city,  with  its  folly  and  its  sin. 

Panting    with   a   longing,    and   a    golden  -  misted 

dreaming 
For  a  haven  where  the  spirit  knows  no  surfeit  in 

its  joy; 
Where  the  sparkle  of  the  wine-cup,  and  the  love 

from  bright  eyes  streaming, 
Steal  from  age  its  bitter  poison  —  steal  from  time 
its  power  to  cloy. 

Where  regrets  may  never  enter,  never  cross  the 

guarded  portal; 

Where  decay  shall  be  a  stranger,  and  the  past  an 
unstained  leaf, 

17 


1 8 


With  no  doublings  for  the  future,  but  a  sense  of 

bliss  immortal  — 

Deaf  to  hear  the  voice  of  sorrow,  strong  to  turn 
the  lance  of  grief. 

Where  the  wailing  of  the  widow,  and  the  wrong  and 

crime  and  aching 
In  the  hearts  of  saddened  brothers,  treading  dark 

and  lonesome  ways, 
Shall  never  pierce  the  ramparts,  nor,  the  trance 

perpetual  breaking, 

Cloud  the  sun  of  its  enjoyment,  mar  the  music 
of  its  lays. 

Where  no  winter's  frost  may  wither  flowers  of  per 
fume  everlasting  — 
Never  hush  the  song  of  brooklets,  change  the 

splendor  of  the  scene; 
But  the  shades  of  peace  eternal  —  soul  and  sense 

and  mind  o'ercasting  — 

Wrap  them  safe  from  outer  troubles,  in  a  grand 
unbroken  dream. 


WINE    PICTURES 

"FiLL  me  a  brimming  goblet," 

I  said  to  my  winsome  wife; 
"Let  me  read,  in  its  bubbles  reflected, 

The  story  of  its  life." 

From  a  flask,  long  treasured  and  olden, 

She  filled  the  goblet  up, 
And  I  spoke  of  the  pictures  that  passed  me 

In  the  bubbles  of  the  cup. 

Here  is  a  generous  vineyard 
On  the  slope  of  a  pleasant  hill; 

Below,  the  village  lies  sleeping 
In  the  noontide,  warm  and  still. 

I  can  hear  the  summons  to  labor, 
And  the  maids  come  tripping  along 

To  gather  the  grapes,  while  weaving 
Their  toil  into  blithesome  song. 

And  one  there  is  standing  among  them, 
Whose  face  is  more  fair  and  sweet 

Than  all  others;  like  snow  in  the  winter 
Is  the  gleam  of  her  bare  white  feet. 
19 


20  mint 


She  plucks  from  the  vine  its  burden  — 
They  are  fair,  these  maids  of  France  — 

And  she  whispers  to  one  who  will  lead  her 
At  eve  through  the  village  dance. 

He  answers;  she  blushes.     The  story 

Is  the  old  one,  ever  new  — 
The  dawn  of  the  dream  —  '  '  And  the  ending,  '  ' 

Quoth  my  wife,  '  '  I  will  read  for  you.  '  ' 

See  how  the  glamour  and  glory, 

Mark  how  the  luster  divine, 
In  the  hand  of  a  woman  departed 

From  this  cup  of  historic  wine. 

"I  see  in  this  bubble  your  maiden, 

A  wan  and  a  weary  wife; 
And  I  read  in  this  wine  the  story 

Of  a  sad  and  a  wasted  life  ! 

"  No  vineyard  is  here  —  no  music 

Of  villagers'  songs  at  eve  — 
But  the  wailing  of  wives  heart-broken  — 

And  the  sobs  of  mothers  who  grieve 

"  For  sons  and  husbands  and  brothers, 
And  many  a  grand,  great  soul,"  — 


21 


Here  I  reached  for  the  antique  goblet, 
And  drained  the  delicious  bowl, 

And  remarked  to  my  wife,  "  When  I  started 

This  pleasing  little  romance 
About  vineyards  and  maidens  and  flirting, 

And  billing  and  cooing  in  France, 

1  '  JT  was  not  to  provoke  a  sermon  —  '  ' 
Here  my  wife  in  wrath  went  out, 

And  I  fought  with  the  bottle  till  daylight, 
In  an  old-time  bachelor  bout. 


A    CHRISTMAS    REVERIE 

UNTIL  skies  were  darkened,  and  fortune  failed  me, 
And  friends  forsook  me  for  lack  of  pelf, 

I  never  knew  what  a  good  companion, 
What  a  glorious  fellow  I  was  myself. 

Now,  seated  here  by  the  blazing  embers, 
With  my  cup  of  wine  in  the  twilight  dim, 

A  long  procession  of  dead  Decembers 
Come  floating  over  the  goblet's  rim. 

And  I  drink  to  him,  that  other  fellow, 
Who  never  has  wandered  from  my  side, 

From  youth's  callow  hours  to  the  sere  and  yellow 
Pal  and  companion,  both  true  and  tried. 

We  have  no  secrets  from  one  another; 

We  've  been  in  sunshine,  we  've  been  in  rain, 
At  the  knees  we '  ve  knelt  of  the  same  dear  mother 

By  her  bier  have  suffered  the  same  keen  pain. 

I  bid  him  call  up  those  dear  dead  faces 
We  both  so  loved  in  the  golden  past, 

And  we  dream  again  of  the  old  embraces, 
And  the  clinging  arms  about  us  clasped, 


Si  Cfirtetmag  Xtebttie  23 

And  of  one  fair  woman,  so  sweet  and  tender, 
No  lovelier  maid  on  God's  earth,  I  ween; 

Oh,  lips  like  rose-leaves,  eyes  deep  and  tender! 
Right  proud  you  found  us  to  call  you  queen. 

It  was  then  we  quarreled,  you  bid  me  shun  her, 
And  you  called  her  false,  and  your  words  were 
sooth, — 

But  what  mortal  eyes  could  have  gazed  upon  her 
And  not  swear  her  breathing  of  love  and  truth. 

Then  came  hopes  and  fears,  and  long  nights  of 
waking, 

Heart-sore  with  yearning,  and  passion  tossed, — 
One  day  contentment,  and  then  the  aching 

Of  a  ruined  life  and  a  treasure  lost. 

Now,  old  companion  who  has  walked  beside  me 
In  desert  paths  and  when  blooms  were  rife, 

Too  close  and  faithful  to  e'er  deride  me, 
My  alter  ego,  my  other  life, 

From  this  silver  goblet  we'll  quaff  together 

The  same  good  draught  of  the  same  good  wine; 

When  the  curtains  falls  on  life's  stormy  weather, 
In  the  same  cold  chamber  we  '11  both  recline. 


SWEETHEARTS    AND    WIVES 

IF  sweethearts  were  sweethearts  always, 

Whether  as  maid  or  wife, 
No  drop  would  be  half  so  pleasant 

In  the  mingled  draught  of  life. 

But  the  sweetheart  has  smiles  and  blushes 
When  the  wife  has  frowns  and  sighs, 

And  the  wife's  have  a  wrathful  glitter 
For  the  glow  of  the  sweetheart's  eyes. 

If  lovers  were  lovers  always, 

The  same  to  sweetheart  and  wife, 

Who  would  change  for  a  future  of  Eden 
The  joys  of  this  checkered  life  ? 

But  husbands  grow  grave  and  silent, 
And  cares  on  the  anxious  brow 

Oft  replace  the  sunshine  that  perished 
At  the  words  of  the  marriage  vow. 

Happy  is  he  whose  sweetheart 
Is  wife  and  sweetheart  still  — 

Whose  voice,  as  of  old,  can  charm  him, 
Whose  kiss,  as  of  old,  can  thrill; 

24 


fetoettfieartg  and  flflliteg          25 

Who  has  plucked  the  rose,  to  find  ever 

Its  beauty  and  fragrance  increase, 
As  the  flush  of  passion  is  mellowed 

In  love's  unmeasured  peace; 

Who  sees  in  the  step  a  lightness; 

Who  finds  in  the  form  a  grace; 
Who  reads  an  unaltered  brightness 

In  the  witchery  of  the  face, 

Undimmed  and  unchanged.     Ah!  happy 

Is  he,  crowned  with  such  a  life, 
Who  drinks  the  wife,  pledging  the  sweetheart, 

And  toasts  in  the  sweetheart  the  wife. 


DRUNK    IN    THE    STREET 

"  DRUNK,  your  honor,"  the  officer  said: 

<(  Drunk  in  the  street,  sir."     She  raised  her  head; 

A  lingering  trace  of  the  olden  grace 

Still  softened  the  lines  of  her  woe-worn  face; 

Unkempt  and  tangled  her  rich  brown  hair; 

Yet  with  all  the  furrows  and  stains  of  care, 

The  years  of  anguish  and  sin  and  despair, 

The  child  of  the  city  was  passing  fair. 

The  ripe  red  mouth,  with  lips  compressed, 
The  rise  and  fall  of  the  heaving  breast, 
The  taper  fingers,  so  slender  and  small, 
That  crumple  the  fringe  of  the  tattered  shawl, 
As  she  stands  in  her  place  at  the  officer's  call, 
Seem  good  and  fair,  seem  tender  and  sweet, 
Though  this  fallen  woman  was  drunk  in  the  street. 

Does  the  hand  that  once  smoothed  the  ripple  and 

wave 

Of  that  golden  hair  lie  still  in  its  grave  ? 
Are  the  lips  that  pressed  her  lips  to  their  own 
Dead  to  the  pain  of  that  stifled  moan? 
26 


SDtunfe  in  tfje  Street  27 

Has  the  voice  that  once  chimed  with  the  lisping 

prayer 

No  accent  of  hope  for  the  lost  one  there  — 
Bearing  her  burden  of  shame  and  despair  ? 

Drunk  in  the  street  —  in  the  gutter  down  — 
From  a  passionate  longing  to  crush  and  drown 
The  soul  of  the  woman  she  might  have  been, — 
To  cast  off  the  weight  of  a  fearful  dream, 
And  awake  once  more  in  the  home  hard  by 
The  wooded  mountain  that  kissed  the  sky; 
To  pause  a  while  on  the  path  to  school 
And  catch,  by  the  depths  of  the  limpid  pool, 
Under  the  willow  shade,  green  and  cool, 
A  dimpled  face  and  a  laughing  eye, 
And  the  pleasant  words  of  the  passers-by. 

Ye  men  with  sisters  and  mothers  and  wives, 

Have  ye  no  care  for  these  women's  lives? 

Must  they  starve  for  the  comfort  ye  never  speak? 

Must  they  ever  be  sinful  and  erring  and  weak, 

Tottering  onward  with  weary  feet, 

Stained  in  the  gutter,  and  drunk  in  the  street? 


THE   WILLOW-TREE 

ONCE,    when   the   world   was   young,   the  willow 

proudly  lifted 
Its   branches    to  the  smiling  sky  as  straight  as 

poplar-tree; 

Silver  cloudlets  greeted  it,  soft  winds  o'er  it  drifted, 
None  dared  to  rival  its  grace  and  symmetry 

Murmuring  rivers  wooed  it  with  accents  low  and 

tender, 
But  it  never  bent  to  listen  —  its  gaze  was  on  the 

sun; 
Yearning    to    the   zenith,    its    tendrils    lithe    and 

slender, 
Bid  the  stars  a  welcome,  saw  the  dawn  begun. 

Alas  for  the  direful  hour  the  tyrants  flogged  our 

Saviour! 
Flogged  him  with  willow  rods!  —  then  it  cursed 

its  birth ! 

And  since  that  bitter  time,  mourning  their  behavior, 
The  willow-tree  has,  weeping,  bent  toward  the 
parent  earth. 


Ofllilloto  -  Uttt  29 


Crying  in  its  anguish,  "Mother,  who  can  blame 

me? 

Dear  Christ,  forgive  me  !   O  children  of  men, 
Do  not  my  weeping  boughs  through  all  the  ages 

shame  thee? 
I  who  unconsciously  wrought  the  Saviour  pain. 

"  Oh,  had  I  a  voice!  then  never  Heaven's  thunder, 
Nor  all  its  clamor  the  shrinking  woods  among  — 

Aye,  though  its  bolts  tore  rod  and  branch  asunder, 
Could  command  me  silence  in  this  cruel  wrong. 

*  '  Yet  fondly  do  I  hope  I  shall  yet  be  shriven, 
And  my  offending  forgotten  evermore; 

That,  in  the  ages,  Christ,  who  has  forgiven, 
Shall  lift  up  kindly  my  branches  as  of  yore." 


ENAMORED 

IF  ever  I  think  of  those  pleasant  nights, 

Those  moments  of  loving  we  stole  from  the  ball, 

And  if  ever  I  dream  of  those  dear  delights, 
When  you  and  I  parted,  at  twelve,  in  the  hall, 

I  assure  you,  Miss  Inez,  it  is  not  because 

I  fancied  your  heart  ever  turned  towards  me. 

We  flirted,  you  know,  but  respected  the  laws, 
So  both  from  love's  arrows  are  perfectly  free. 

Yet,  again,  I  have  thought  in  your  eyes  dwelt  a 
light — 

A  something  denied  to  the  rest  of  the  world  — 
When  prone  at  your  feet,  on  the  festival  night, 

Beneath  that  old  porch  I  lay  blissfully  curled. 

'Twas  a  charming  flirtation;  we  both  were  expert, 

And  both  rather  seasoned  —  well  up  in  the  art  — 

Though  I  sometimes  half  wished  that  you  were  not 

a  flirt, 

And  had  less  of  the  ball-room  and  more  of  the 
heart. 


(Enamoren  31 


For  your  hand,  love,  was  soft  (I  am  e'en  flirting 

yet, 

So  the  language  is  naturally  tender  and  warm), 
And  I  've  tried  very  hard,  dear,  but  can  not  forget 
How  my  silly  cheeks  burned  when  you  leant  on 
my  arm. 

And  I  've  dreamed  now  and  then  that  we  were  not 

in  jest, 
But  were  each,  mind  and  soul,  all  in  all  to  the 

other; 
And  I  've  hoped,  in  my  blindness,  there  burned  in 

your  breast, 
A  spark  that  our  vanities  never  could  smother. 

Well,  of  course,  I  was  wrong;  but  still  do  I  wear 
The  rose-leaves  you  gave  me  —  those  rose-leaves 
you  kissed; 

And  I  find  in  my  locket  a  tress  of  brown  hair, 
And  I  find  in  my  bosom  that  something  is  missed. 

'T  was  playing  with  fire;  and  if  one  felt  the  pang, 
And  still  feels  the  scar  —  why,  who  is  to  blame? 

You  remember  the  ballad  one  evening  you  sang, 
About  ' '  loving  and  trust  bringing  sorrow  and 
shame"  ? 


32  (Enamored 


Did  we  love  and  trust?      Did  you  fear  that  we 

might, 
When  you  sang  me  that  ballad  of  shame  and 

disgrace  ? 

Let   bygones    be    bygones  ;    farewell,   and   good 
night! 
Pass  out  from  my  life-path,  O  beautiful  face! 


THE    IRISH    TRAMP 

WHIN  the  sun  is  shining  brightly,  an'  the  grass 

(God  bless  it ! )  is  green, 
Like  the  ould  sod  o'er  the  ocean  I  sailed  from  at 

siventeen, 
An'  my  mother  came  down  to  the  steamer  (it  was 

the  first  she  ever  did  see), 
Crying,  "Terence  Cushla  Machorra,  don't  forget 

the  Asthon  Machree." 

Whin  the  sun  is  shining  brightly,  an'  the  grass 

(God  bless  it!)  is  green, 
Back  to  me  like  a  vision  comes  her  face  in  that 

parting  scene, 
Wid  her  gray  hair  over  her  shoulders,  an'  her  arms 

about  me  neck, 
An'  she  begging  the  Virgin  to  save  me  from  sin 

an'  trouble  an'  wreck. 

Shure  she  thought  I  'd  make  me  fortune  in  a  couple 

of  years  or  more, 
An'  come  sailing  back  wid  my  pockets  lined,  again 

to  sweet  Ireland's  shore, 

33 


34  Wbt  3ri0f)  lEramp 

An'  buy  the  ould  cabin  out  an'  out,  an'  ride  in  my 

coach  an'  four, 
An'  fill  the  meadows  wid  fine  milch  cows,  an'  have 

pigs  an'  sheeps  galore, 

An'  marry  the  landlord's  daughter,  an'  become  a 

magistrate, 
An'  drink   whisky   an'    wine   an'    porter  wid  the 

wealthy  an'  the  great, 
An'  restore  once  more  the  O'Houllihans  to  their 

ancient  medaval  state, 
An'  for  the  County  Galway  in  Parliament  take  my 

sate. 

Av  course,  it  was  idle  draming;  but  many  a  night 

I  know 

Has  the  ould  mother,  sad  an'  lonesome,  sat  by  the 
-      logwood's  glow. 
An'  smiled  whin  she  thought  of  her  gossoon  away 

beyond  the  say, 
Makin'    slathers   of  money  to   carry  home  to  his 

mother's  lap  some  day. 

Whin  the  sun  is  shining   brightly,  an'   the   grass 

(God  bless  it! )  is  green, 
An'   the   beautiful   sky  above   me  is   smiling   an' 

serene, 


35 


I  wonder,  alas^I  wonder,  an'   my  grimy  cheeks 

grow  damp, 
If  the  ould  mother  home  in  Ireland  prays  still  for 

the  Irish  Tramp. 


CRASTINE    VIVE    HODIE 

GIVE  us  this  day  our  daily  bread; 
Feed  us  to-day,  and  let  the  morrow 

Trust  to  itself. 

We  live  to-day,  and  little  care 
What  burdens  foolish  mortals  bear 

For  love  of  pelf. 

The  day  is  ours  —  the  sun,  the  breeze, 
The  song  of  streams,  the  shade  of  trees, 

The  balmy  wine, 

The  clasp  of  hands,  the  flash  of  eye, 
The  melody  of  passion's  sigh 

In  love  divine. 

Our  daily  bread  —  not  for  the  years 
Do  we  foreshadow  joy  or  tears  — 

But  for  the  day. 

We  care  not  if  through  toil  or  rest, 
With  heart  o'erjoyed,  or  sore  oppressed, 

We  see  our  way. 
36 


Cragtine  $tte  l^otiie  37 

Let  it  be  hidden;  if  we  fail, 
Life  is  at  best  so  dim,  so  frail, 

It  matters  not  — 
If  we  the  thorny  path  may  climb 
Or  faltering,  sink  before  our  time 

And  are  forgot. 

Shall  we,  the  atoms  of  a  day, 
Build  palaces  along  our  way, 

And  glory  crave, 
When  every  hour  we  see  the  end 
Of  wife  and  mistress,  father,  friend, 

Is  but  the  grave? 


fflE  LIB, 


JOVINA 

A   LEGEND   OF   THE   SAN   CARLOS    MISSION 

MANY  legends  of  the  Mission,  in  the  pleasant  days 

of  old, 
Round  the  hearth  in  Spanish  households,   when 

evening  falls,  are  told; 
Many  tales  of  love  and  daring,  and  woman's  faith, 

that  last 
In  the  archives  of  those  people  who  reverence  the 

past. 
In  the  cold,  material  present,  it  is  well  to  catch  a 

glance 
Of  those  dim  and  moldering  pages  of  a  country's 

brief  romance. 

One  evening  in  December,  half  a  century  ago, 
In  the  Mission  of  San  Carlos  fell  the  sunset  wintry 

glow. 
From  the  belfry-tower  the  Angelus  was  musically 

rung, 
In  the  aisles  the  hymns  were  chanted  in  the  soft 

Castilian  tongue, 

38 


Hoirina  39 


Padre  Juan,  with  hands  uplifted,  the  kneeling  faith 
ful  blest, 

Then  dismissed  them, —  and  the  Mission  was 
wrapped  in  sleep  and  rest. 

Up  rose  the  moon;  its  soft  light  in  tender  shimmer 
lay 

On  the  cypress-shadowed  bosom  of  Carmel's  tran 
quil  bay. 

Round  Point  Pinos'  rugged  headland,  by  ocean 
breaker  swept, 

By  the  west  wind  gently  wafted,  a  tall-sparred 
schooner  crept; 

And  ere  had  ceased  the  rattle  of  her  noisy  anchor- 
chain, 

At  her  peak  streamed  out  her  ensign  —  the  flag 
of  haughty  Spain. 

Next  morning,  in  the  Mission,  her  commander 
and  the  priest 

Sat  down  in  friendly  concourse  to  a  hospitable 
feast. 

Count  Alfredo  told  his  story  —  how  his  idol  and 

his  pride, 
His   faithful   wife,    Jovina,    but   a   week   ago   had 

died, 


40 


And  how  the  hopes  that  filled  him  of  name  and 

fame  were  gone; 
He'd  lift  anchor  on  the  morrow   and   return  to 

Spain  alone. 
He   had    longed    to   bring   back   tidings    of    this 

unknown  northern  shore, 
But  ambition  had  departed — he  was  stricken  and 

heartsore. 
He  would  leave  his  little  daughter  with  the  padre 

till  again 
A   larger,  safer  vessel  should  arrive  from  distant 

Spain. 

Then  he  called  the  little  maiden,  who  among  the 

rose-trees  played, 
And  her   hand   within   the  padre's  with  graceful 

reverence  laid. 
The  good  priest  kissed  with  tenderness  the  sweet 

upturned  face, — 
"  May  the  Virgin  help  me!"  said  he,  "I  will  try 

to  fill  your  place. ' ' 

A  dozen  years  passed  over,  and  the  padre,  old  and 

gray, 
Looked  seaward  from  the  Mission,  for  never  since 

that  day 


Jobina  41 


The  Count  Alfredo  left  him  Jovina  for  his  ward 
Had  aught  that  might  concern  the  Captain's  fate 
been  heard. 

And  she,  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  Mission,  like 

the  rest 
Of  maidens,  felt  love  knocking  for  admittance  at 

her  breast. 
Her  tender  heart  was  given, —  nay,  her  pure  and 

earnest  soul, — 
For  what  Spanish  maid  who  loves  well  surrenders 

not  the  whole 
Of  her  being  to  her  lover?     But  the  youth  Jovina 

loved 
By  the   good   folks  at  the  Mission   was  very   ill 

approved  — 
Carlos  Sanchez,  brave  and  handsome,  who  careful 

mothers  said 
Wandered  round,  guitar  on  shoulder,  when  'twas 

time  to  be  in  bed. 

The  old  priest,  sighing,  murmured :  "lam  full  of 

years  and  rust, — 
Yet  a  few  years  and  this  chancel  will  open  for  my 

dust,— 


42  lotrina 


And  Jovina  (who  can  fathom  a  youthful  maiden's 

mind?)  — 

Her  fancies  are  as  various  and  fickle  as  the  wind. 
I  have  told  her  of  her  father;  I  have  taught  her  all 

I  could 
Of  the  fortitude  and  bearing  that  belongs  to  noble 

blood, 
And  this  Sanchez — but  she  loves  him — "    "  Padre 

mio!"  — at  his  side 
Kneels  Jovina.      ' '  Ah,  my  daughter,  so  soon  to  be 

a  bride! 
Blessings  on  you,   mi  chiquita;   may  your  future 

be  as  bright 
As  yon  mellow  sun  now  bathing  this  dark  hair  in 

his  light." 

Christmas  Eve:  The  bells  are  ringing,  and  the 
Mission  maids  are  gay 

In  mantles  and  mantillas  for  Jovina' s  wedding- 
day. 

It  lacked  an  hour  of  sunset,  when  on  the  ocean's 
rim 

The  white  sails  of  a  vessel  loomed  indistinct  and 
dim. 

Another  hour  a  great  ship  her  anchor  drops,  and 

flies 


43 


The  Spanish  ensign,  greeted  by  many  wondering 

eyes. 
Padre  Juan  stands  on  the  wet  sands;  the  first  that 

leaps  to  land 

Rushes   rapidly  toward  him  and  grasps  his  out 
stretched  hand: 
"My   daughter?"      "She   is   yonder,"    said   the 

padre,  with  troubled  face, 
And  the  Count  strides  toward  the  Mission  in  fierce, 

impatient  haste. 
The  news  has  traveled  quickly,  and  the  Mission 

maidens  grieve  — 
Jovina  and  her  lover  will  not  wed  this  Christmas 

Eve. 
For  the  bride  has  kissed  the  bridegroom  she  will 

never  see  again, 
And  sleeps  aboard  the  vessel  that  will  carry  her  to 

Spain. 

The  night  is  dark  and  gloomy,   and  the  anchor 

watchmen  creep 
'Neath  the  forecastle  for  shelter,  where  all  their 

comrades  sleep; 
The  plash  of  oars  they  hear  not,  so  loud  the  storm's 

loud  wail, 
Nor  see  the  muffled  form  now  bending  o'er  the  rail. 


44  iobina 


They  only  hear  from   Pinos  the  breakers  on  the 

strand, 
Nor  see  the   tossed   and   spray-lashed   skiff  that 

struggles  toward  the  land. 

Christmas  Day,  the  sun  dispelling  the  early  morning 

haze, 
Gleams  through  the  fringing  pine-trees;  its  broad 

and  golden  rays 

Rest  on  the  old  church  belfry,  then  mercifully  fall 
On  the  long  black  tresses,  veiling  the  body  like  a 

pall, 
Of  a  woman,  drowned,  disfigured,  and  cast  up  by 

the  tide, 
And  clad  in  wedding  garments,  —  for  Death   had 

claimed  a  bride. 
Nor   was   the   bridegroom    wanting, —  for    farther 

down  the  shore, 
Lay  Sanchez,    in  his  death-clasp  grasping  still  a 

broken  oar. 
And  all  the  Mission  mourned  them,  and  still  old 

gossips  say 
The   roses   bloom   the  whole   year   round,   above 

their  graves  to-day. 


SING    ME    A    RINGING    ANTHEM 

SING  me  a  ringing  anthem 

Of  the  deeds  of  the  buried  past, 
When  the  Norseman  brave  dared  the  treach 
erous  wave, 

And  laughed  at  the  icy  blast. 

And  fill  me  a  brimming  beaker 

Of  the  rich  Burgundian  wine, 
That  the  chill  of  years,  with  its  chain  of  tears, 

May  unbind  from  this  breast  of  mine; 

For  working  and  watching  and  waiting 
Make  the  blood  run  sluggish  and  cold, 

And  I  long  for  the  fire  and  the  fierce  desire 
That  burned  in  the  hearts  of  old. 

I  can  dream  of  the  fountains  plashing 

In  the  soft,  still  summer's  night, 
And  of  smothered  sighs,  and  of  woman's  eyes, 

And  of  ripe  lips,  ruddy  and  bright. 

But  better  the  tempest's  fury, 

With  its  thunders  and  howling  wind, 

And  better  to  dare  what  the  future  may  bear, 
Than  to  muse  on  what  lies  behind. 

45 


46       feinff  $®t  a 


Then  chant  me  no  tender  love-song, 

With  its  sweet  and  low  refrain, 
But  sing  of  the  men  of  the  sword  and  the  pen, 

Whose  deeds  may  be  done  again. 


NEW-YEAR    THOUGHTS 

As  IN  the  west  the  evening  sun  goes  down, 
And,  dying,  glorifies  with  varied  hues 
Of  gold  and  purple  all  the  floating  clouds 
That  saw  him  slowly  sink  below  the  verge; 
So  the  old  year  to  us  —  who,  with  a  sigh, 
Mark  his  last  hour,  as  tranquilly  he  fades  — 
Leaves  many  a  rich-hued  memory  behind. 

The  twilight  fades,  the  night  goes  by,  anon 
The  eastern  sky  is  flushed  with  joyous  clouds 
That  wait  expectant  for  the  sun's  return; 
And  as  he  climbs  the  blue,  and  gleams  and  glows, 
Gladdening  the  world  and  all  life  with  the  dawn, 
The  clouds  and  peaks  receive  his  kiss,  and  blush, 
So  we,  the  fresh  young  New  Year  hail,  nor  grieve 
For  that  which  in  the  solemn  midnight  died. 

The  hope,  the  promise  of  some  better  things 
Than  we  have  known  brightens  dull  hearts,  as  when 
A  sunbeam  swift  from  parted  clouds  breaks  forth 
O'er  meadows  on  a  fitful  April  day, 
Chasing  the  shade  to  hide  on  hills  and  groves. 
The  buried  aspirations  —  though  their  graves 

47 


48 


Have  not  yet  known  a  single  season's  change  — 
Are  all  forgotten;  as  the  child  who  flies 
To  grasp  the  gaudy  moth,  and,  failing,  turns 
To  pluck  a  flower,  which  seems  the  richer  prize. 

The  storm-tossed  sailor,  when  the  wave  is  high, 
And  bitter  winds,  ice-laden,  sweep  the  deck, 
In  dreams  beholds  the  tropic  summer  seas, 
Where  gentle  zephyrs,  with  the  perfumed  breath 
Of  fruited  woodlands,  sigh  through  shroud  and  sail. 
Thus,  turning  from  the  old  year's  cheated  hopes 
And  broken  promises  and  erring  deeds, 
We  look  beyond  to  pleasant  scenes  and  paths 
Which  virgin  months  shall  smilingly  disclose. 

Come,  glad  New  Year,  unwritten  scroll,  white  page 
Where  we  may  write  the  record  of  good  deeds 
Long  left  undone  —  annals  of  brave  resolve, 
Accomplished  by  sweet  patience  and  strong  will. 
Come,  glad  New  Year,  and  make  us  strong  and  true; 
And  when  you  sink,  sun-like,  below  the  verge, 
Be  we  the  clouds  to  wear  for  evermore 
The  golden  brightness  of  your  memories. 


FAREWELL   THE    PIPE 

THROW  down  the  pipe,  and  let  its  shattered  bowl 
Lie  on  the  earth  in  atoms  at  my  feet! 

Adieu  the  fragrant  incense  which  my  soul, 

Dark  and  bewildered,  once  found  passing  sweet ! 

No  more  shall  float  before  my  half-closed  eyes 
Fair  visions,  mingled  with  its  azure  clouds ; 

No  more  succeeding  forms  shall  fall  and  rise 
In  vapors  soft,  a  shadowy  welcome  crowd. 

No  more  tall  castles  rear  their  gleaming  walls 
With  open  portals  and  inviting  ways; 

No  more  the  drowsy  hum  of  waterfalls, 
The  memories  of  the  rapturous  yesterdays. 

No  more  to  see,  locked  in  the  noisy  town, 

Long  meadow  reaches,  where  the  brooks  rush  by 

To  meet  the  sea,  and  in  a  last  kiss  crown 
Their  sacrifice  and  ocean's  victory. 

Throw  down  the  pipe,  and  with  this  parting  plaint 
Perish  the  pleasures  all  good  smokers  love; 

I  '11  smoke  no  more;   I  'm  training  for  a  saint, — 
The  harp  and  robe  and  purer  joys  above! 


49 


IN   MEMORIAM 

CHERISHED  and  honored  beyond  all  others, 

Loved  and  looked  up  to,  as  dearest  and  best, 
Noblest  of  natures  and  kindest  of  brothers, 

Truest  of  souls  that  a  friend  ever  blest; 
Could  you  but  speak  to  us,  poor  dead  one,  lying 

Cold  in  thy  casket;  and  if  it  were  meet 
That   you   could    whisper   us,  "  Hush   and   cease 
sighing," 

Even  our  grief  for  you  then  would  be  sweet. 

Oh!  but 't  is  hard  to  feel  we,  left  behind  you, — 

We,  sore  and  sorrowing,  here  by  your  bier, — 
Never  again  in  this  life  may  remind  you 

How  much  we  worshiped  you,  how  held  you 

dear. 

Hand,  cold  and  motionless,  though  we  may  clasp 
you, — 

Hand,  true  and  faithful,  now  rigid  and  prone,  — 
Though  we  may  cling  to  you,  fervently  grasp  you, 

No  pressure  shall  thrill  in  response  to  our  own. 

Eyelids  now  closed  in  the  last  solemn  slumber^ 
Would  that  beneath  you  our  own  eyes  might  see 

50 


3Jn  9?emottam  51 


One  glance   of   the   many   that   beamed   without 

number, 

Soothing  our  troubles,  or  brightening  our  glee! 
Voice  that  once  flowed  like  a  beautiful  river,  — 
In  song  sweeter  than  song-birds'  most  exquisite 

trill,— 

How  can  we  feel  that  you  are  silenced  forever, 
Your  glory  departed,  your  melody  still  ? 

Ah!  but  we  '11  keep  thy  grave  green  with  love's 

fountains, 

And  close  in  our  hearts  a  grave  greener  for  thee, 
With  a  grief  that  shall  last,  friend,  as  long  as  the 

mountains, 

As  deep  and  unchanged  as  the  sob  of  the  sea. 
The  heart-place  left  vacant  shall  never,  oh  never, 

By  another  be  claimed,  by  another  be  filled, 
Until  we,  too,  lie  down  in  thy  calm  sleep  forever, 
And  our  pulses,  like  thine,  friend,  forever  are 
stilled. 


BY   THE  SEA 

THE  curling  waves  crept  up  the  beach, 
The  fishers  drew  their  nets  to  land; 

Behind  us  lay  the  clover  reach, 

Before  us  gleamed  the  pleasant  sand. 

A  deeper  blue  was  on  the  sea, 

Than  ever  touched  its  waves  before; 

In  sweeter  fragrance  bloomed  the  lea, 
In  purer  silver  stretched  the  shore. 

We  sat  on  rocks,  where  time  and  age 
Had  fretted  many  a  curious  trace. 

Her  heart  was  mine  —  an  open  page; 
Her  love  was  written  in  her  face. 

A  ship  sailed  by.     The  sea-birds  led; 

The  waters  clasped  her  gliding  form. 
"And  so  shall  be  our  lives,"  she  said; 

"With  never  sorrow,  never  storm." 

A  black  cloud  darkened  all  the  sky, 
And  darkened  all  the  smiling  land; 

A  sunbeam  chased  the  cloud  away, 
My  love  then  raised  her  dimpled  hand 


152  t&e  Sea  53 


And  said :  "  If  shadows  chill  our  hearts, 
'T  is  aye  for  fear  the  sun  may  cloy; 

For  when  the  past  of  gloom  departs, 
The  warmer  glows  the  present  joy." 


ROMANCE    AND    REALITY 

"HERE  is  the  bed  where  Nellie  slept," 
She  turned  the  snowy  coverlet  down; 

In  through  the  lattice  the  ivy  crept  — 

What  a  blissful  change  from  the  heated  town! 

"Good-night."    She  left  me;  the  moonbeams  fell 
On  flowered  carpet  and  dainty  bed; 

I  smoked  and  pondered,  but  strange  to  tell 
I  could  n't  get  Nellie  out  of  my  head. 

"  My  aunt  had  never  a  friend,"  I  said, 
"  Named  Nell  or  Nellie;  yet  I  am  here, 

Seated  on  Nell  or  Nellie's  bed  — 

My  clothes  upon  Nell's  or  Nellie's  chair." 

"  '  Nellie!'— I  always  liked  that  name,— 
The  gods  are  propitious,  and  I,  perchance, 

Who  voted  the  country  dull  and  tame 
Am  here  beginning  my  life  romance. 

"  How  fragrant  this  soap!    And  this  ewer  quaint 
Has  the  water  held  in  which  Nellie  washed,  — • 

Nellie,  whose  face  needs  no  nasty  paint; 

And  the  basin,  too, —  what  a  pity  'tis  smashed! 

54 


Romance  anu  IBUalitp  55 

4 '  How  soft  the  towel !     Nellie  or  Nell 

Has  hung  it  thus.     What  a  dear,  sweet  girl 

She  is,  to  be  sure!    And  this  brush!    Ah  well, 
I  wish  I  could  drop  on  a  truant  curl. 

"  Is  she  a  blonde?  or  is  she  a  brunette? 

I  'm  sure  to  love  her!     These  nights  of  bliss 
Are  made  for  loving.     I  knew  that  yet 

I  should  meet  my  fate  in  some  way  like  this. ' ' 

I  sank  on  the  pillows.     ' '  O  dear,  sweet  Nell ! 

To  think  that  your  cheeks  have  pressed  this 

down, 
And  your  limbs  reclined  here,  my  country  belle, 

One  day  to  be  queen  of  my  house  in  town. ' ' 

My  sleep  was  broken.     '  T  was  not  the  breeze 
That  sighed  through  the  trees  the  whole  night 

long; 
I  rather  fear  that  it  was  the  fleas, 

Though  the  thought  seemed  wicked  and  base 
and  wrong. 

I  looked  in  vain  in  the  breakfast-room 
For  Nell  or  Nellie.     She  was  not  there. 

"  Dear  aunt,"  I  said,  "  are  we  not  too  soon? 
Miss  Nell  has  not  finished  her  morning  prayer." 


56  l&omance  and  IBUalitp 

1 '  Nellie,  come  here. ' '     With  cheeks  aflame, 
I  could  not  raise  my  eyes  from  the  floor; 

But  grim  was  the  air  of  the  ancient  dame, 
As  Nellie,  her  poodle,  came  in  at  the  door! 


ANITA 

A  SOFT,  dark  eye  —  so  deep,  so  deep, 
Its  liquid  depths  no  glance  may  follow; 

A  face  where  lights  and  shadows  creep 
O'er  arching  brow  and  dimpled  hollow. 

A  voice,  now  loud  in  maiden  glee, 

As  tides  on  pebbly  reaches  throbbing, — 

Now  sorrow-hushed,  as  sunset  sea 
In  purple  rays  at  even  sobbing. 

O  twining  hands!  O  rich,  dark  sheen 
Of  gleaming  braids  that  crown  in  glory 

A  face  as  fair  as  spirits  seen 

In  ancient  books  of  Bible  story! 

O  love !  O  life !  like  generous  wine  — 

Like  breezes  from  the  streams  and  mountains, 

Thy  presence  thrills  this  soul  of  mine, 

Thy  glances  stir  my  heart's  deep  fountains. 

O  love!    O  life!  a  rose,  a  weed, 

Touched  by  thy  hand,  my  peerless  beauty, 
Is  cherished  with  a  miser's  greed, 

And  guarded  well  in  jealous  duty. 

57 


5s  Stnita 

But  though  you've  woven  warp  and  woof 
Into  the  thread  of  my  life's  passion, 

I  dare  not  speak,  but  stand  aloof, 

And  dream  and  sigh  —  the  olden  fashion. 


THE   ANGLER'S   CONFESSION 

I  'VE  angled  in  many  waters, 

On  many  a  summer's  day, 
By  many  a  murmuring  river, 

In  many  a  tangled  way ; 
And  the  voice  of  the  brook  has  never 

Lost  pathos  and  charm  for  me, 
As  it  rippling  runs  forever 

To  its  grave  in  the  mighty  sea. 

These  were  the  days  the  angler, 

In  the  flush  of  guileless  youth, 
Told  all  his  simple  story  — 

Told  nothing  but  the  truth: 
"  I  fished  the  stream  near  the  mill-dam 

Hour  after  hour  in  vain  — 
I  've  not  a  trout  in  my  basket; 

To-morrow  I  '11  try  again." 

But  now,  alas!  this  bosom 

Is  sadly  changed  —  I  fear 
I  've  learned  to  lie  like  others, 

In  the  angling  time  of  year. 

59 


60          <3Tl)e  Singlet*  0 


"  Fishing?     I  rather  think  so  — 

A  hundred  in  half  a  day; 
Two-pounders,  and  strong  —  such  monsters! 

Each  took  an  hour  to  play." 

I  've  learned  to  lie  like  others: 

I  've  gone  to  the  stream  and  found 
A  small  boy  fishing  before  me; 

Then  prone  on  the  pleasant  ground 
I  've  lain  and  slumbered,  and  bid  him 

Call  me  when  he  had  caught 
Just  enough  to  fill  my  basket  — 

And  thus  my  fish  were  bought. 

Then  over  my  nice  clean  stockings 

I  've  plastered  the  river  mud, 
And  the  sleeves  of  my  angling  jacket 

I  've  smeared  with  fishes'  blood, 
And  strolled  to  the  ferry  landing 

With  a  weary  look  in  my  eye, 
Then  reveled  for  days  succeeding 

In  one  luxurious  lie,  — 

How  I  fell  from  the  massive  bowlder; 

How  I  swam  the  turbulent  brook; 
How  in  one  pool  four  and  twenty 

Speckled  beauties  I  took. 


SlnQ\tt'&  Confession         61 


Men  may  rave  of  the  joys  of  angling, 

But  let  them  not  despise 
The  pure,  the  esthetic  pleasure 

That  dwells  in  those  angling  lies. 


FALLEN 

I  vow  the  strain  from  yon  ball-room  band, 
Which  steals  tender  and  sweet  through  the 

moonlight  now, 

Recalls  me  the  touch  of  her  matchless  hand, 
And  the  odor  that  breathed  from  her  gold- 
crowned  brow. 

And  here  alone  this  September's  eve, 

With  the  moon  above  and  within  the  glow 

Of  that  brilliant  hall,  I  cannot  but  grieve 
For  the  queenly  woman  I  used  to  know. 

For  queen  she  was  once  of  the  fair  and  gay  — 
Once  the  courted  and  loved  of  all, 

Whose  light  step  moved  like  a  forest  fay 

Through  the  glare  and  glitter  of  many  a  ball. 

Once  before  her  the  richest  and  proud 
Craved  a  smile  from  those  ripe  red  lips, 

And  with  courtly  murmur  of  soft  praise  bowed 
To  press  with  passion  her  finger-tips. 
62 


jfallen  63 

She  is  now  the  jest  of  each  ruffian  boor, 

A  stranger  to  all  that  is  good  and  bright, — 

No  longer  honored,  no  longer  pure, 
A  star  that  has  lost  its  luster  and  light. 

And  the  ballad  you  careless  revelers  trolled 
Was  a  song  she  loved  in  the  golden  years, 

In  the  sunlight  days,  ere  a  woman  sold 
Her  soul  for  riot,  her  peace  for  tears. 


WITH    THE    DEAD 

WHITE  folds  of  linen  on  the  marble  face 
Lie  in  the  silence  of  the  coming  day; 

The; long  black  shadows  creep  with  laggard  pace; 
The  eastern  sky  is  marked  with  streaks  of  gray. 

O  quiet  dead,  let  but  those  pallid  lips 

One^late-learned  secret  of  the  soul  disclose, 

So  that  our  wisdom  may  at  once  eclipse 
All  that  the  sage  of  all  the  sages  knows. 

O  tranquil  lids,  lift  from  those  hidden  eyes, 
That  on  their  orbs  our  doubting  eyes  may  see 

The  graven  gleams  of  startled,  rapt  surprise 
Which  marked  their  first  glimpse  of  eternity. 


The  morning  breeze  sweeps  thro'  the  solemn  room 
And  stirs  the  folds  that  wrap  the  dead  around; 

The  bold,  broad  sun  dispels  the  chilling  gloom; 
The  streets  are  all  astir  with  life  and  sound. 

Most  tacit  dead!  has  mourning  love  no  power 
To  win  one  accent  for  its  many  tears? 

64 


Sfllitfi  t&t  SDeati  65 

Most  ingrate  dead!  who  leaves  us  in  an  hour, 
And  with  us  leaves  the  grief  of  loss  for  years, 

One  single  word  —  the  faintly-breathed  farewell 
That  failed  thee  as  the  fluttering  spirit  fled! 

No  answer  yet!     Ring  out  the  final  knell! 
And,  men,  come  in  to  bear  away  our  dead. 


A  CHRISTMAS  DREAM 

I  STOOD  on  the  shores  of  the  Wide  Awake,  at  the 

close  of  a  winter's  day, 
Then  I  boarded  my  shallop  and  steered  my  course 

to  a  country  far  away; 
I  was  bound  to  the  land  of  the  Fast  Asleep,  my 

track  in  the  silver  beams 
Of  the  lustrous  moon  that  lighted  my  way  to  the 

harbor  of  Pleasant  Dreams. 


A  Norman  castle  with  lofty  keep  stands  on  a  flower 
ing  lea, 

And  a  landmark  bold  for  miles  around  it  frowns  on 
the  open  sea. 

I  am  bidden  to  enter  the  pillared  hall  where  the 
banquet  board  is  spread, 

And  knights  and  ladies  surround  the  feast,  and  the 
baron  sits  at  the  head. 

Stream  and  forest,  and  crag  and  lake  have  sent 
their  offerings  here, 

Deer  and  boar  from  the  parent  wood,  and  fish  and 
bird  from  the  mere; 

66 


Si  Cljrigtmag  SDteam  67 

And  the  wine  is  quaffed  in  mighty  draughts  from 

cups  of  silver  and  horn, 
As  the  minstrels  chant  in  holy  phrase  of  the  night 

that  Christ  was  born; 
And  the  yule-log  blazes  upon  the  hearth,  and  I 

mark  by  its  ruddy  flame 
A  cavalier,  grander  than  all  the  rest,  who  sits  by  a 

winsome  dame. 

The  blush  is  red  on  her  lovely  cheek,  as  he  whis 
pers  low  in  her  ear: 
"  This  day  and  night  will  forever  be  to  me  the  best 

in  the  year, 
And  wherever  I  go,  and  wherever  I  be,  I  swear 

on  the  cross  of  Christ 
That  my  soul  with  thine  on  each  Christmas  Eve 

will  keep  its  solemn  tryst. 
And  whether  I   perish   by  heathen   sword,  or  by 

knightly  lance  am  sped, 
Whether  we  twain  must  live  apart,  or  by  God's 

grace  we  are  wed, 
This  night  of  all  nights  will  bring  me  back  from 

the  spirit  world  to  say 
That  love  is  immortal  and  knows  no  death,  but 

must  live  for  ever  and  aye." 


68  &  Cfjrtetmag  SDream 

An  English  manor,  and  elm  and  oak  are  draped  in 

the  gleaming  snow, 
But  laughter  and  mirth  are  rife  within,  as  under  the 

mistletoe 
The  daring  youth  leads  the  bashful  maid,  and  salutes 

her  lips  of  red  — 
Lips  that  rival  the  crimson  glow  of  the  berry  wreaths 

overhead. 
And  the  same  old  chant  from  the  waits  outside  to 

the  merry  throng  is  borne, 
"  God   bless   you,  dames  and  gentlemen,  on  this 

night  that  Christ  was  born. ' ' 

Where  have  I  seen  this  maiden's  eyes,  and  marked 

the  bearing  bold 
Of  that  comely  youth  ?     '  T  is  the  dame  and  the 

knight  of  the  Norman  tower  of  old! 
Now  I  know  that  the  souls  of  the  lovers  then  abide 

with  these  lovers  now, 
And  I  know  that  the  knight  to  the  peerless  dame 

has  kept  his  solemn  vow, 
That  on  this  eve  of  the  good  Christ's  birth,  though 

fate  had  parted  the  twain, 
Their  souls  in  those  of  a  later  life  have  found  union 

and  love  again. 


Si  Cfjrtetmag  SDream  69 

And  now  I  behold  in  my  changeful  dream,  by  the 

calm  Pacific  sea, 
In  a  stately  mansion  a  comely  throng  that  surrounds 

a  Christmas-tree; 
No  Norman  castle,  no  manor  old,  no  waits  on  the 

snow-clad  lawn, 
On  this  night  that  the  shepherds  saw  the  star  and 

hailed  the  immortal  dawn. 
But  the  holly-berries  are  bright  and  red, —  and  in 

yonder  nook,  I  swear, 
Hand  clasped  in  hand,  and  lip  close  to  lip,  sit  a 

youth  and  a  maiden  fair! 

Oh,  wonder  of  wonders!     That  maiden's  eyes  are 

the  eyes  of  the  dame  of  old, 
And  the  bold,  broad  brow  is  the  brow  of  the  knight, 

and  his  voice  the  voice  that  told 
His  own  true  love  that  he '  d  keep  his  tryst,  and  his 

fond  devotion  prove, 
On  this  night  when  the  hearts  of  all  mankind  are 

moved  to  pity  and  love. 

Ah,  who  shall  question  those  gracious  things,  no 

matter  how  strange  they  seem, 
Or  doubt  that  to  many  the  best  of  life  is  the  life 

they  live  in  their  dream  ? 


BY  THE   LAKE 

O  SUMMER'S  day!    O  smiling  lake! 

O  plash  of  wave!    O  pebbly  beach! 
The  low,  sweet  words  that  softly  break; 

The  thoughts  too  full  for  common  speech; 

The  round,  soft  hand  that  lay  within 

The  brown,  broad  palm  that  burned  and  clung; 

The  heart  that  strove  a  heart  to  win, 

While  meadows  waved  and  robins  sung; 

The  memories  of  a  golden  day, — 

Of  fresh  spring  flowers,  of  sun  and  lake, — 

Of  all  she  would  yet  could  not  say, 
Of  all  I  would  yet  could  not  take, — 

Are  green  this  autumn,  though  the  trees 
Have  lost  the  bloom  they  wore  and  waved, 

Though  many  an  ebb  and  flow  of  seas 

The  lake's  white  shores  have  left  and  laved. 

The  corn  then  peeped  above  the  sod 

In  unripe  beauty,  fresh  and  cool; 
The  cautious  angler  swung  his  rod 

Above  the  purple-shadowed  pool. 

70 


tfie  Eafee  71 


To-day  the  harvest- fields  are  bare; 

The  clover  hues  are  gray  and  dead; 
The  meadow-grass,  where  lurked  the  hare, 

Is  gathered  to  the  farmer's  shed; 

The  mottled  fowl  float  on  the  lake; 

The  ripples  murmur  in  the  reeds; 
The  quail  pipes  in  the  sheltered  brake; 

The  minnow  darts  among  the  weeds; 

The  sky  is  clear,  the  air  is  pure, 

And  all  is  sweet  as  when  before 
The  dreams,  too  golden  to  endure, 

Were  dreamed  beside  the  lake's  fair  shore. 


A   SPANISH   VISTA 

LARGE,  lazy  cattle  on  the  hill, 

The  landscape  dotted  over, 
The  sigh  of  breeze,  the  song  of  rill, 

The  scent  of  blooming  clover. 

Beyond,  the  tired  sun  sinking  down, 

In  clouds  of  lurid  splendor, 
And  gilding  all  the  mountain's  crown 

With  rays  serene  and  tender. 

A  hacienda,  shaded  o'er 

By  oaks,  which  in  this  wildwood 
Rose  high  above  the  river's  shore, 

In  the  Franciscan's  childhood, 

Were  large  and  strong  in  those  old  days, 

When  Spanish  expeditions 
Came  here  to  plant,  in  tangled  ways, 

The  tall  cross  of  the  Missions. 

Upon  the  porch  a  maiden  lies, 

And  over  hill  and  meadow 
Beholds,  with  calm  and  lustrous  eyes, 

The  sun-rays  yield  to  shadow. 

72 


Si  fe>pante!)  $teta  73 

She  chants  a  cadence  soft  and  clear, 

A  tale  of  Spanish  glory; 
The  oaks  seem  bending  down  to  hear 

The  music  of  her  story. 

I  listen,  and  I  live  again, 

In  twilight  dream  Elysian, 
That  past  when  legendary  Spain 

Made  romance  in  the  Mission. 

The  song  is  hushed,  the  sun  is  down, 

The  moon  is  rising  slowly; 
Still  on  the  porch  the  mountain's  frown 

The  singer  shadows  wholly. 

Backward  and  backward  creeps  the  shade, 

By  gracious  moonlight  driven, 
Till  lightly  rests  upon  the  maid 

The  silver  light  of  heaven. 


THE    FAVORITE    TOAST 

HERE!  stop  the  song!    Look  at  the  clock! 

Although  it's  to  our  liking, 
The  joke  must  wait.    Ease  up  the  talk; 

Eleven's  nearly  striking. 

Fill  glasses  for  the  old-time  toast 

We  hold  above  all  others, 
The  one  we  love  and  honor  most: 

"  Here's  to  our  absent  brothers." 

Good  fellows  all,  where  are  you  now, 
Who  came  with  cheery  greeting 

In  other  days,  and  wondered  how 
Men  thought  that  life  was  fleeting  ? 

There 's  Charley,  brightest  of  them  all, — 

His  face  shines  in  the  claret. 
He  wears  a  smile  to  conquer  Gaul, 

As  none  but  he  could  wear  it. 

Dear  boy,  his  shadow  in  the  glass 
Shines  bright  and  fair  and  cheery. 

I  almost  hear  the  old  jest  passed, 
M  Let's  drink,  and  all  be  merry." 

74 


jfafcotite  'ftoagt  75 


And  Jack,  who  died  a  year  ago, 
When  life  was  in  its  summer,  — 

I  see  him  in  the  shadow  show 
A  new  and  loving  comer. 

And  good  John  Boyd,  and  Hull,  and  those 
Who  've  passed  across  the  ferry, 

Return,  as  round  that  chorus  goes, 
<(  Let  's  drink,  and  all  be  merry." 

Dear  boys,  I  know  not  where  you  are, 

Nor  do  I  care  to  ponder 
Upon  your  home  in  that  land  far 

Across  the  ferry  yonder. 

But  yet  I  know,  where'er  you  rove, 

You  '  d  hurry  out  of  heaven 
To  drink  this  toast  with  those  you  love 

When  clocks  point  to  eleven. 

So  we,  who  stand  around  the  board, 

Remember  all  those  others,  — 
Drink  deep  this  toast  without  a  word: 

'  '  Here  '  s  to  our  absent  brothers.  '  ' 


IN   THE    COLISEUM 

ON  the  Campagna  fell  the  shades  of  night, 
And  by  the  yellow,  full-fed  stream  that  rolled 
On  through  the  broad  and  far-extending  plain, 
The  herdsman  shouted  to  his  thirsty  flock, 
Whose  heads  were  buried  in  the  Tiber's  flood, 
Drinking  their  fill  as  closed  the  sultry  day. 

An  old  man  clad  in  skins,  with  painful  step 
Walked  on  to  where,  skirting  the  western  sky, 
Arose  the  tall  and  frowning  walls  of  Rome; 
And  by  his  side,  guiding  his  feeble  steps, 
A  maiden  whose  soft  cheek  the  sun  had  kissed 
Brown  as  the  nuts  on  lofty  Sabine  hill, 
Moved,  speaking  words  of  tenderness  to  him. 

"  Think  you,"  he  said,  "  that  soldier's  words  were 

sooth, 

That  he  had  seen  amid  the  brotherhood, — 
Aye,  in  the  arena, —  Faustus,  my  lost  son, 
The  handsomest  and  the  bravest  of  them  all, — 
Faustus,  thy  playmate  ?    Surely  thou  must  mind 
How  when  the  Goths  thy  father's  cottage  wrecked, 
And  slew  him  then  before  thy  mother's  eyes, 
76 


3fn  t&e  Coliseum  77 

"  Faustus  did  bear  thee,  —  he  then  but  a  boy, — 
Far  from  the  bloody  hearth,  and  guarded  thee. 
And    think    ye    now    that    Faustus    wounds    and 

slays, — 

He  whose  once  tender  hand  would  gently  lift 
A  piping  fledgling  from  the  ground  and  smooth 
Its  tiny  feathers,  lay  it  once  again 
Back  in  the  nest  it  wandered  from  too  soon  ? ' ' 

The  maiden  shuddered.  ' '  Faustus  could  not  brook 
The  sober  dullness  of  the  herdsman's  life, 
And  so  sought  Rome,  where  men  of  warlike  minds 
Find  ever  favor  in  Augustus'  eyes." 
Conversing  thus,  the  twain  at  last  drew  near 
The  gates  of  Rome,  and  entered  and  moved  on 
To  where  the  Coliseum's  bulk  stood  out 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Palatine  Hill. 

Struck  by  the  maid's  fair  face,  a  soldier  said: 
"  You  come  in  time,  sweet  one,  to  see  to-night 
The  games,  for  noble  Caesar  has  decreed 
That  forty  of  the  brotherhood  contend, 
And  that  so  hotly  that  but  one  survives 
And  Caesar  hails  above  his  brethren  slain. 
Nay,  shrink  not,  maiden;  if  thou  tarriest  here 
But  a  few  months,  thy  appetite  for  blood 


78  Jn  t&t  Colteeum 

Shall  grow  as  keen  as  that  of  our  fair  dames, 
Who  love  to  see  a  Roman's  full  veins  bleed." 

Into  the  circus  next  day  poured  the  throng. 
Matron  and  maid  and  proud  patrician  filled 
The  benches  rising,  tier  surmounting  tier. 
Lictor  and  legionary  and  centurion  stood 
Around  the  throne  where  haughty  Caesar  sat, 
Cold,  like  a  marble  god,  upon  his  shrine. 

"  All  hail,  great  Caesar!"  rose  the  ringing  shout, 
And  then  a  pause,  for  marching  on  the  sands, 
With   gleaming   shield   and   sword,   the   brethren 

came. 

"  The  dying  hail  thee,  Caesar!"    Then  the  fray! 
Steel  rings  on  steel,  swords  clash,   the  sands  are 

dyed 

Red  with  the  blood  of  slaughtered  men,  and  still 
The  sinewy  arms  rise  high  to  smite  and  thrust, 
And  women's  cheeks  are  flushed,  and  languid  eyes 
Flash  into  life  to  see  this  reign  of  death. 

But   two  are  left.     They  meet  —  their  blades  are 

crossed !  — 

"  Faustus!" — above  the  mighty  din  is  heard 
The  girl's  wild  scream.     One  of  the  twain  looks 

back. 


Jin  t&e  Colteeum  79 

Ah,  fatal  pause!  his  foeman's  blade  falls  swift, 
And  prone  he  lies  upon  the  crimson  sands. 
Pitiless  Caesar  to  the  earth  points  down, 
And  then  the  gladiator's  restless  heart, 
Which  weaned  of  the  quiet  herdsman's  life, 
Had  ceased  to  beat. 

A  few  hours  later,  when  the  games  were  done, 
Upon  those  benches  where  the  plebeians  sit 
They  found  a  lovely  maiden  cold  in  death. 
Her  head  was  pillowed  on  an  old  man's  breast. 
He,  too,  was  dead,  and  none  their  story  knew. 


THE   STATE-HOUSE   BELL 

(1776) 

STANDING  proudly  on  the  threshold  of  her  fruit 
ful  hundred  years, 

The  youngest  of  the  nations  lifts  her  head  among 
her  peers. 

Pointing  backward  to  the  patriots  that  mark  her 
century's  tide, 

With  the  laurel  on  her  fair  brow,  she  names  their 
deeds  with  pride; 

And  the  old  theme  that  so  often  has  been  told  and 

read  and  sung: 
How  the  great  bell  of  the  State-house,  from  its 

ponderous  brazen  tongue, 
Sonorous  rang  its  tidings — with  quick  pulse  and 

moistened  eye 
Was  hailed  a  nation's  birthday  in  memorial  July. 

But  never  can  the  story  be  too  often  wreathed  in 

verse, 

And  never  can  historian  too  oft  the  tale  rehearse — 
so 


For  the  old  to  bid  them  gladden,  and  be  strong 

and  stout  of  heart; 
For  the  young  to  let  the  future  see  them  act  as  well 

their  part; 

As  a  requiem  for  the  warriors  whose  blood  baptized 

the  sod; 
For  the  statesmen  whose  wise  counsels  broke  British 

rule  and  rod. 
In  the  belfry  stand  the  ringers  —  hangs  above  the 

silent  bell  — 
Their  arms  are  bared,  their  eyes  gleam,  they  love 

this  duty  well. 

Without,  the  eager  people  sway  and  murmur  like 

the  sea; 
Within,  the  statesmen  listened  to  the  words  that 

made  them  free. 
The  noonday  sun  is  blazing;  but  greater  than  its 

Jieat, 
And  fiercer,  is  the  fire  within  those  hearts  upon  the 

street. 

So  grave  and  so  determined,  with  bent  brows  and 

lips  compressed, 
Toward  the  meeting-house   the  eager  mass,    with 

steady  purpose,  pressed. 


82 


Maid  and  matron,  age  and  childhood,  gaze  with 

anxious  look  on  high, 
Where  the  massive  tower,  gigantic,  looms  against 

the  summer  sky. 

"Oh,  this  weary  expectation!     How  the  minutes 

drag  along!  " 
Hush,  good  friends!    You  '11  be  rewarded  with  the 

richest,  rarest  song 
Ever  rung  from  brass  and  iron.     Hush!  be  still 

and  hold  your  breath! 
On  the  swinging  of  yon  metal  hangs  our  country's 

life  or  death  ! 

"Have  they  signed  it?"    "Not  all!   Hear  them  — 

they  are  still  in  hot  debate! 
Oh,  pass  on,  you  sluggish   moments,  and  let  us 

know  our  fate!" 
Then  the  waiting  throng  is  silenced  —  over  all  a 

stillness  fell; 
When   clang!    clang!    from    the  steeple  peals   the 

thunder  of  the  bell. 

Hear   its  grand    reverberations  swelling  o'er   the 

anxious  town, 
Bringing  joy  to  all  the  people,  bringing  sorrow  to 

the  crown. 


83 


Hand  grasps  hand  with  warmest  pressure.     *'  Ring 

out,  ringers,  well  and  strong! 
Ring  in  the  joys  of  freedom  —  ring  out  the  woes 

of  wrong! 

"Ring  right  lustily,  my  brave  boys!    The  great 

pledge  signed  to-day 
Shall  be  sealed  with  freemen's  best  blood  in  many 

a  fiery  fray. 
Ring   out,   and    never   weary,  —  for    children   yet 

unborn 
Shall  bless  the  glorious  music  you  '  ve  made  for  us 

this  morn/' 
No  sooner  was  the  peal  stilled,  than  burst  the  bell 

in  twain  — 
After  such  a  lofty  message  it  could  ring  no  meaner 

strain. 

Nigh  a  hundred  years  'tis  silent,  but  the  memory 

of  that  chime 

Shall  echo  on  forever  until  the  end  of  time; 
Echo  on  through  other  nations,  bidding  other  hearts 

rejoice, 
And  like  it,  in  Freedom's  honor,  lifting  up  a  peo 

ple's  voice. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  NEVER  WAS 

I  BOARDED  my  ship  and  I  sailed  away 

With  never  a  sigh  or  pause, — 
Away,  away,  to  the  rim  of  day, 

And  the  land  of  the  Never  Was. 

White  were  my  sails  as  the  soaring  gull 

That  followed  me  o'er  the  sea; 
The  breeze  was  strong  with  never  a  lull; 

And  the  only  crew  with  me 

Were  my  hopes  and  dreams  of  another  shore, 

A  port  of  refuge  and  rest, 
Around  the  cape  of  the  Evermore, 

In  the  land  of  the  Golden  West. 

Land  ho!  land  ho!  and  the  anchor  falls 

Deep  in  the  purple  tide. 
From  the  bordering,  the  towering  walls 

Face  me  on  either  side. 

And  my  ship  is  safe  in  a  sheltered  bay, 

And  only,  from  miles  afar, 
Is  heard  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight  gray 

The  surf  on  the  harbor  bar. 

84 


EanU  of  t&e  jReber  flfliag       85 


And  now  as  I  step  on  the  shining  sand, 
There  comes  to  the  peaceful  shore, 

With  kindly  faces  and  outstretched  hands, 
From  the  land  of  the  Nevermore, 

The  noble  souls  from  the  Never  Was, 

This  isle  in  the  purple  sea, 
Who  have  framed  its  tender  and  kindly  laws, 

To  give  this  welcome  to  me. 

There  never  has  been  in  the  Never  Was, 
Since  the  birth  and  beginning  of  time, 

A  friend  that  was  false,  or  a  maid  untrue, 
Or  the  faintest  shadow  of  crime. 

There  never  has  been  a  pang  of  pain, 

Or  a  human  heart  gone  wrong, 
And  the  echoes  of  life  have  been  the  strain 

Of  a  sweet,  harmonious  song. 

And  nobody  toils  from  the  early  light 

To  the  dusky  close  of  day, 
In  this  beautiful  land  of  glory  and  right, 

Where  my  anchored  vessel  lay. 

They  gave  me  a  palace  of  towering  height, 
With  meadows  and  woods  and  streams, 


86       <jtj)e  Eanti  ot  ttie  Jibber 


And  my  house  was  peopled  with  fancies  bright, 
My  hopes,  and  my  noontide  dreams. 

The  shriek  of  the  tempest,  the  breaker's  shock 

As  it  foams  on  the  iron  shore, 
And  my  ship  is  lost  on  the  cruel  rock, 

Off  the  Cape  of  Evermore! 

And  the  beautiful  land  of  Never  Was, 
With  its  great  souls  fresh  and  free, 

Are  buried  with  me  and  my  gallant  ship, 
Deep  in  the  purple  sea. 


TWO     RIVERS 

As  THE  lark  from  his  cosy  nest 

Welcomed  the  morn, 
Fresh  from  the  mountain's  crest, 

Twin  streams  were  born. 

Through  deep  vale  and  wooded  dale, 

Meadow  and  lea, 
One  singing  merrily, 

Gushed  to  the  sea. 

Through  bleak  waste  and  arid  plain, 

Cheered  by  no  song, 
Far  from  the  waving  grain, 

One  toiled  along. 

And  one  stream  the  sunlight 

Tinted  with  gold, 
While  gloomy  clouds,  black  as  night, 

The  other  enfold. 

But  when  the  evening  sun 

Sank  in  the  west, 
The  sea  caught  the  rivers  both 

Home  to  her  breast. 
87 


88  fflTtoo  lBUb*r0 


And  the  song  of  the  river 
That  burst  o'er  the  lea, 

Has  been  hushed  for  all  time 
In  the  moan  of  the  sea. 

And  the  wail  of  the  river 

That  toiled  through  the  plain, 

In  nature's  wild  throbbing 
Will  ne'er  sound  again. 

Our  lives,  like  these  rivers, 
Howe'er  they  be  cast, 

In  the  grave,  the  great  ocean, 
Find  nepenthe  at  last. 


DROWNED 

ON  the  bosom  of  the  river 

Dainty  moonbeams  gleam  and  quiver; 

Trembling  forms  shrink  and  shiver, 

Gazing  on  its  silver  sheen. 
There  is  peace  and  calm  forever: 
Bonds  of  sin  may  solve  and  sever 
In  a  journey  with  the  river, 

Through  its  willow  banks  of  green. 

Pallid  faces  are  uplifting 

To  the  moonbeams,  glint  and  shifting; 

Stiffened  limbs  are  drowned  and  drifting 

Underneath  the  rustling  trees. 
For,  while  all  the  world  was  sleeping, 
Found  a  tired  heart  rest  from  weeping; 
Sought  the  river  sadly  creeping 

Towards  the  moan  of  distant  seas. 

Never  more  the  pain  of  losing, 
Never  more  the  chill  refusing, 
Never  more  the  deadly  choosing 
Of  the  sin  and  taint  of  care; 

89 


90  2Drotone& 


Past  the  days  and  nights  of  longing, 
Past  the  sense  of  wrong  and  wronging, 
Comes  the  deadly  sleep  belonging 
To  the  erring  ones  that  were. 


NATURE  AND   MAN 

THE  moon  is  dawning,  the  west  is  darkening, 
A  sighing  sound  haunts  the  bodeful  air; 

The  forest  pines  appear  hushed,  and  harkening 
Like  living  forms,  for  vesper  prayer. 

Their  leaves  are  sparkling,  but  not  with  gladness: 
Who  readeth  well  what  their  sheen  bespeaks 

Will  deem  those  pearly,  pale  dews  of  sadness 
Most  like  the  tear-drops  on  weepers'  cheeks. 

The  knelling  fall  of  the  mournful  waters 
Floats  down  the  dell  like  the  saddest  song, 

As  though  the  flood's  fabled  fairy  daughters 
Bewailed  some  victim,  or  deed  of  wrong. 

And  as  the  gold  of  the  sunset  slowly 
Decays  and  darkens  till  all  hath  fled, 

Those  tones  appear  to  unite  in  holy 

And  choral  swells  for  the  lost  and  dead. 

Is  this  illusion?     A  poet's  dreaming? 

An  airy  legend  from  Feristan  ? 
Or  are  the  thoughtful  more  wise  in  deeming 

That  Nature  may  sometime  mourn  with  man  ? 
91 


MARRIAGE   A   LA   MODE 

HARRY,  old  fellow,  the  other  day 

The  wedding-bells  chimed  for  a  girl  we  knew — 
A  boarding-house  beauty,  with  golden  hair, 

And  the  dainty  complexion,  and  eyes  of  blue; 

And  the  bridegroom  proudly  stood  at  her  side, 
And  the  parson  pronounced  them  man  and  wife; 

But  I  thought,  when  I  looked  at  the  stately  bride, 
Of  those  days  when  she  made  a  part  of  your  life. 

And  I  wondered  if,  laid  away  in  your  trunk, 

Are  those  letters  I  've  carried  by  dozens  to  you, 

When  she  was  your  sweetheart,  and  you  believed 
There  was  none  in  the  world  so  fond  and  true. 

The  groom,  poor  mortal,  believed,  no  doubt, 
That  he  was  the  idol  of  that  heart's  shrine; 

But  I  could  have  sworn  her  thoughts  were  afar 
With  you,  in  your  ship  on  the  sultry  line. 

Well,  the  wedding  presents  came  thick  and  fast. 

I  did  as  you  told  me.     The  opal  ring 
I  gave  her,  saying:    "A  leaf  from  the  past, 

From  an  absent  friend,  by  request  I  bring." 


a  la  9£0&e  93 


She  smiled  and  laughed  and  admired  the  stone, 
And  turned  to  her  husband;  but  well  I  knew 

What  it  cost  her  to  stifle  an  agonized  moan, 
When  she  placed  on  her  finger  her  gift  to  you. 

Farewell,  dear  fellow!  'tis  best  as  it  is  — 
But  be  sure  of  this:  that  she  'd  rather  be, 

Though  rich  her  husband  and  proud  her  home, 
With  you  to-night  on  the  lonely  sea. 

Since  the  fates  have  willed  it,  she  '11  live  her  life 
With  the  man  of  money  —  he's  good  and  kind; 

But  whenever  she  looks  at  that  opal  ring 
She  '11  grieve  for  the  Eden  she  left  behind. 


DIGMAN    PASHA 

"GENERAL,  dismount!"     The  warrior  laughed, 

And  stroked  his  beard,  and  laughed  again. 
"What!   I,  who  danger's  draught  have  quaffed 

On  many  a  hard-fought  battle-plain, 
Dismount  because  the  balls  are  flying  ? 
I  've  seen  the  Russian  squadrons  hying 
Before  our  Moslem's  troops  in  force, 
And  never  yet  have  left  my  horse." 

A  bullet  strikes  the  grand  old  man, 

A  shell  beneath  him  plows  the  ground; 
He,  smiling,  says,  "  Life's  but  a  span," 
And  binds  his  scarf  about  the  wound. 
"General,  dismount!  "     He  called  back,  ' '  Nay, 
I  've  lived  through  many  a  bloody  fray, 
And  while  the  crescent  floats  on  high, 
I  ride  as  Moslem  should  —  to  die! 
For  Allah  and  the  Sultan  yield 
My  life,  if  needs,  on  this  red  field!" 

Another  volley !     That  bold  breast 

Is  bleeding  now!     The  gleaming  sword 

Falls  from  his  nerveless  hands,  —  the  best, 
The  bravest,  die  for  faith  and  lord. 

94 


95 


As  Digman  Pasha's  old  gray  head 
Lies  on  a  mourning  comrade's  knee, 

He  whispers  ere  the  soul  has  fled, 
11  Abdul,  I  die  for  faith  and  thee!  " 

As  long  as  valor  wins  a  name 

To  glisten  upon  history's  page, 
As  long  as  soldier'  s  cherished  fame 

And  great  deeds  live  from  age  to  age, 
Let  Digman  Pasha's  name  have  place 
Among  that  gallant  Moslem  race, 
Who  never  fail  when  called  to  stand 
And  battle  for  their  native  land  ! 


TOM    MOORE 

THE  legends  were  dim  and  forgotten, 

Neglected  the  heart  and  unstrung, 
And  the  sad,  sweet  lore  of  the  nation 

Grew  strange  on  her  children's  tongue, 
When  out  of  the  ranks  of  the  people 

Sprang  a  bard,  like  the  flash  of  a  blade, 
And  the  world  stood  passive,  and  wondered 

At  the  weird,  sweet  music  he  made. 

As  the  west  wind,  that  breathes  of  the  summer, 

Wins  the  chilled  buds  to  fragrance  and  bloom, 
So  the  strains  of  the  God-gifted  comer 

Won  the  genius  of  song  from  its  tomb  ; 
From  the  old  abbeys,  ruined  and  hoary, 

From  the  castles  that  frowned  o'er  the  sea, 
He  wove  a  romance  and  a  glory 

As  he  chanted  the  hymns  of  the  free. 

What  pathos  he  wrung  from  that  shattered, 

That  time-worn  harp,  when  again 
He  swept  its  strings,  breathing  of  sorrow, 

Of  love  and  oppression  and  pain  — 
96 


97 


Of  pain  and  of  passion  the  deepest  — 
Like  wine,  in  the  ripeness  of  years 

The  richer,  because  of  the  glimpses 
Of  smiles  through  its  burden  of  tears. 

It  began,  as  the  promise  of  dawning 

Empurples  the  clouds  of  the  night; 
It  grew  till,  like  landscapes  at  noontide, 

The  land  was  aglow  with  its  light. 
To-day  it  is  mellow  and  tender, 

Half  mirthful,  half  sad,  and  all  pure, 
As  it  teaches  the  children  of  Ireland 

To  be  faithful,  and  strong  to  endure. 

In  the  far  battle-fields  of  the  stranger, 

By  the  camp-fires  of  France  and  of  Spain, 
On  the  eve  of  the  morrow  of  danger, 

The  bivouac  rang  with  its  strain, — 
Now  low,  like  the  summer  tides  throbbing 

On  the  beaches  of  Ireland,  and  then, 
Like  the  winter  gales,  raging  and  sobbing 

In  the  hearts  of  those  strife-worn  men. 

O  bard  of  our  own  land,  thy  laurels 

Are  brighter  than  ever  to-day, 
As  we  tread  the  dark  pathway  of  sorrow, 

And  struggle  towards  Liberty's  ray, 


98 


For  the  songs  you  have  taught  us  have  cheered  us; 

And  when  we  have  conquered,  be  sure 
The  first  toast,  the  first  pledge  of  our  freedom, 

Shall  be  to  thy  memory,  Tom  Moore! 


WANDERERS    FROM    THE    SEA 

SHIP  ahoy!    Ship  ahoy!    Speeding  hither  o'er  the 

foam, 
With  the  waters  white  before  thee,  and  their  spray 

upon  thy  deck, 
Steer  you  steadily,  and  surely,  for  you  bring  our 

treasures  home, 

As  the  harbor-bar  you  pass  o'er,  safe  from  storm 
and  wreck. 

Ship  ahoy !    Ship  ahoy !    when  the  winds  about  our 

dwelling 
Blew  fierce,  and  told  disaster,  our  hearts  were 

out  with  thee; 
Far  from  shore  our  hearts  were  drifting  o'er  the 

ocean  wildly  swelling, 

To  the  ship  that  bore  our  treasure,  far,  far  out 
upon  the  sea. 

Ship  ahoy!    Ship  ahoy!   long  and  wearily  we've 

pondered 

On  the  dangers  of  the  tempest,  and  the  cruel 
rocks  a-lee, 

99 


ioo         flflianlimrg  from  tfje 


And  the  ship  that  braves  the  billows,  for  had  that 

good  ship  foundered, 

Our  hearts,   O  gallant  vessel,  had  gone  surely 
down  with  thee. 

Ship  ahoy!  Ship  ahoy!  the  links  that  long  have 

bound  us 
Stretch  farther  than  the  farthest  shore,  reach  over 

every  sea; 
Were  thy  homeward  coming  never,  the  years  would 

still  have  found  us 

Looking  seaward  for  thy  lofty  spars,  and  waiting 
on  the  quay. 

Ship  ahoy!    Ship  ahoy!  thou  art  welcome  to  thy 

mooring, 
Whether  outward  bound  or  homeward,  our  good 

wishes  are  with  thee. 
May  you  ride  out  many  a  tempest,  and  shun  rock 

and  reef,  secure  in 

Our  blessings,  that  you  brought  us  our  friends 
safely  o'  er  the  sea  ! 


LA  GRIPPE 

HAPPY  the  man  who,  on  a  gloomy  day 

When  the  streets  are  mud  and  mire, 

Can  put  the  business  of  the  hour  away, 

And  before  a  blazing  fire, 

Sip  to  his  heart's  desire, 

Even  as  he  gazes  on  the  crackling  log, 

The  hottest  kind  of  grog. 

Not  to  the  millionaire  alone  does  fate  vouchsafe 
For  rain  and  cold  this  pleasant  recompense; 
Philosophers  of  ripened  common  sense 
Can  tranquilly  surrender  business  obligation, 
And  put  (such  is  the  great  law  of  life's  compensa 
tion!) 

Upon  their  doors,*while  they  the  goblet  sip, 
"  Gone  home  to  bed:  La  Grippe." 

Though  churchyards  fatten,  and  the  doctor  sees 
With  each  declining  sun  increasing  fees, 
For  many  more  than  plausible  apologies, 
We  are  indebted  to  La  Grippe. 


102  Ji&  d5rippe 


The  florid  face  which  follows  terrapin, 
The  morning  of  the  night  of  song  and  gin, 
We  place  (alas,  for  man's  mendacious  lip!) 
To  that  convenient  visitant,  La  Grippe. 

Why  reeled  the  model  citizen,  the  man  whose  mind 
Is  ne'er  to  pleasures  bibulous  inclined? 
Is  that  demeanor  staid  upset  by  wine? 
He  '11  tell  you,  "  Whisky — whisky  and  quinine, 
For  grippe,  the  doctor  said."    He  took  it;  life 
Must  be  preserved,  though  an  indignant  wife 
Might  scold  a  man  with  bitter,  biting  word 
For  coming  home,  his  starboard  tacks  aboard. 

For  various  kinds  of  ailments  doctors  pour 

Into  the  patient  horrid,  nauseous  doses, 

Which  make  the  nurses  gasp  and  hold  their  noses, 

And  tear  the  victim  to  his  bosom's  core. 

They  leech  and  blister,  and  in  other  ways 

Inferno's  margin  with  their  tortures  graze; 

But  in  the  grippe  changed  is  the  painful  scene, 

And  the  afflicted  sips  with  brow  serene, 

His  medicine  which  naught  his  soul  distresses. 

His  only  mourning  when  he  convalesces, 

Nor  finds  in  grippe  the  welcome,  dear  excuse 

That  friend  afforded  for  his  daily  booze. 


MUTATIONS 

"  Non  semper  agros  manat  in  hispidos" 

THE  darkest  shadows  at  times  are  lifted, 
The  clouds  not  always  obscure  the  sun; 

The  hardest  burden  is  sometimes  shifted, 
The  hardest  toiling  is  sometimes  done. 

The  stream  that  flows  from  distant  fountain, 
Now  through  desert  and  now  by  lea, 

Though  wide  the  plain  or  steep  the  mountain, 
Sooner  or  later  must  reach  the  sea. 

The  gales  of  winter  that  shake  the  forest 
Give  place  in  spring  to  the  softer  wind; 

The  wounded  hearts  that  have  ached  the  sorest 
In  the  changeful  future  their  solace  find. 

Did  spring  last  ever,  't  would  lose  its  sweetness; 

If  flowers  bloomed  always,  we'd  cast  them  by. 
'Tis  change  that  makes  the  world's  complete 
ness — 

The  sweetest  laughter  succeeds  the  sigh. 


103 


THE   WAITER 

No  cross  he  bears,  nor  ivory  beads; 

At  matin  chime  he  says  no  prayer, 
Nor  text,  nor  hymn  from  volume  reads, 

Nor  bends  the  knee  with  saintly  air. 

He  kneels  in  no  confessional, 
The  penitent's  sad  tale  to  hear, 

Nor  on  his  hand,  in  blessing  reached, 
There  falls  the  sinner's  heart- wrung  tear. 

And  yet  he  knows  so  much — so  much, 
That  tall,  grim  waiter,  mild  and  gray, 

That  homes  would  wither  at  his  touch, 
And  vows  dissolve  had  he  his  say. 

But  yet  he  speaks  not.     On  his  lips 
The  seal  of  silence  rests  supreme; 

The  crowds  that  nightly  come  and  go 
Are  but  the  shadows  of  a  dream. 

The  song,  the  jest,  the  wine,  the  kiss, 
The  plighted  promises, — to  him 

Are  fancies  all,  with  naught  amiss, 
But  phantoms,  undefined  and  dim, 
104 


dfllaitet  105 


Of  worlds  outside  his  narrow  sphere, 

Of  worlds  where  boisterous  cohorts  move- 

And  all  are  near  and  all  are  dear, 
And  every  chant's  refrain  is  love, 

And  every  vow  is  emphasized, 

With  bubbling  wine  and  beaker  quaff; 

And  all  by  chastity  most  prized 
Is  greeted  with  the  scoffing  laugh. 

0  tall,  grim  waiter,  few  indeed 

Can  hear  so  much  and  yet  not  speak. 

1  pledge  thee,  for  thy  noble  creed, 

The  golden  silence  of  the  Greek. 


ONLY   A   WOMAN'S   FACE 

ONLY  a  woman's  face 

Seen  in  the  Latin  quarter, 
Maybe  a  fisherman's  child, — 

Maybe  a  scavenger's  daughter. 

But  eyes  of  infinite  depths, 

Not  easily  forgotten, 
And  a  figure  of  queenly  grace, 

Though  clad  in  a  gown  of  cotton. 

Ah!  far  away  in  the  past, 

When  Spain  was  in  its  glory, 

Some  lord  of  that  mighty  land 
Whispered  love's  tender  story 

Into  the  willing  ear 

Of  a  dame,  whose  great-granddaughter 
In  her  cotton  gown  to-day 

Roams  through  the  Latin  quarter. 

For  never  from  lowly  race 

Sprang  maid  so  sweet  and  winning, 
Perhaps  the  ring,  perhaps 

The  tale  of  passionate  sinning. 

106 


a  Oflloman'g  jface          107 


It  matters  not  to  me; 

Never  again  I  've  sought  her, 
Like  the  dream  of  a  pleasant  hour 

Is  this  queen  of  the  Latin  quarter. 


MONTEREY 

IN  a  mantle  of  old  traditions, 
In  the  rime  of  a  vanished  day, 

The  shrouded  and  silent  city 
Sits  by  her  crescent  bay. 

The  ruined  fort  on  the  hilltop 
Where  never  a  bunting  streams, 

Looks  down,  a  cannonless  fortress, 
On  the  solemn  city  of  dreams. 

Gardens  of  wonderful  roses, 

Climbing  o'er  roof  and  wall, 
Woodbine  and  crimson  geranium, 

Hollyhocks,  purple  and  tall, 

Mingle  their  odorous  breathings 

With  the  crisp,  salt  breeze  from  the  sands, 
Where  pebbles  and  sounding  sea-shells 

Are  gathered  by  children's  hands. 

Women,  with  olive  faces, 

And  the  liquid  southern  eye, 
Dark  as  the  forest  berries 

That  grace  the  woods  in  July. 

108 


109 


Tenderly  train  the  roses, 

Gathering  here  and  there 
A  bud — the  richest  and  rarest — 

For  a  place  in  their  long-,  dark  hair. 

Feeble  and  garrulous  old  men 

Tell,  in  the  Spanish  tongue, 
Of  the  good,  grand  times  at  the  Mission, 

And  the  hymns  that  the  Fathers  sung; 

Of  the  oil  and  the  wine,  and  the  plenty, 
And  the  dance  in  the  twilight  gray — 

"Ah!  these,"  and  the  head  shakes  sadly, 
"Were  good  times  in  Monterey!" 

Behind  in  the  march  of  cities — 

The  last  in  the  eager  stride 
Of  villages  born  the  latest  — 

She  dreams  by  the  ocean  side. 


FAREWELL 

DEAR  friend,  kind  friend,  and  must  we  say  farewell, 
And  break  that  circle,  comrade,  which  so  long 

Has  held  us,  brother,  in  its  pleasant  spell — 
A  loving,  faithful,  merry-hearted  throng  ? 

Death  claims  his  own;  we  mourn,  we  pray  and  trust, 
And  softly  praise  the  dead,  but  yet  we  know 

When  nature  summons  us  again  to  dust, 

We,  too,  along  the  drear,  dark  path  must  go. 

But  when  we  feel  that  though  the  sun-rays  fall 
Upon  us  living,  though  when  stars  are  bright 

We  gaze  above  and  say:    "  He  now  sees  all 
The  mellow  beauty  of  this  summer's  night; 

' '  Still  he  is  absent,  and  his  cheering  voice 
Is  lost  to  us,  as  if  our  friend  were  dead; 

Though  he  may  grieve,  and  we,  perchance,  rejoice, 
And  he  rejoice  while  we  are  sad  instead; 

"We  know  not;  for,  alas!  between  us  lies 
A  barrier  our  thoughts  alone  may  span. 

What  matter  to  us  stars,  or  glowing  skies, 
Since  we  have  lost  of  men  the  truest  man  ? ' ' 


jFaretoell 


The  circle  narrower  grows.     Ah!  what  is  wrong 
In  this  strange  world,  that  partings  are  so  rife  ? 

For  ere  are  hushed  the  echoes  of  the  song, 
There  comes  the  dirge  and  bitterness  of  life. 

The  breeze  that  creeps  through  aisles  of  woodland 

shade, 

When  day  is  done,  bringing  delicious  balm, 
The  cooling  mist  that  freshens  all  the  glade, 

The  wave-borne  lights  that  gleam  when  seas  are 
calm, 

Are  grand,  rich  blessings  in  creation's  plan 
From  the  Beneficent  who  reigns  above. 

But  greater  is  the  love  of  man  for  man  — 
The  love  exceeding  woman's  rarest  love. 

Such  is  our  love.     And  never  better  placed 
Was  man's  affection  since  the  Persian  youth, 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  footstool  strong,  embraced, 
Glorying  in  death  for  friendship  and  for  truth. 

The  morning  sun  that  climbs  the  eastern  sky 
And  fades  at  evening  in  the  crimson  west, 

Though  grand  at  noon  its  luster  to  the  eye, 
Its  last  light  is  the  fairest  and  the  best. 


H2  JFatrtodl 


And  thus  our  love.     In  its  meridian  heat, 
In  all  the  warmth  of  its  noontide  power, 

Has  never  seemed  so  dear,  so  sadly  sweet, 
As  in  the  twilight  of  this  parting  hour. 

And  now,  farewell !    Night  may  give  place  to  dawn, 
And  birds  sing  on,  and  autumn  crown  the  land; 

But  what  care  we  when  you,  our  friend,  are  gone, 
And  but  the  last  clasp  of  your  faithful  hand 

Left  as  a  memory  of  a  golden  scene, 

On  which  the  curtain  all  too  early  fell  — 

The  sad  awakening  that  succeeds  the  dream 

Of  severed  ties  ?    Farewell,  dear  friend,  farewell! 


THE   DEAD   WARRIOR 

MUFFLE  the  drum,  let  the  musket  point  downward, 
Twine  crape  in  yon  banners, —  the  soldier  lies 

low! 
His  hands  shall  no  more  draw  the  sword  from  its 

scabbard, 
His  wan  lips  no  more  cheer  his  men  on  the  foe. 

Oh,  what  a  harvest  that  great  soul  is  reaping, 
The  grandest,  the  rarest  a  soldier  e'er  won: 

For,    behold,    a  whole  nation   lies   prostrate   and 

weeping 
At  the  bier  of  its  savior,  its  warrior  son. 

What  shall  we  say  of  him?     How  tell  his  story? 
Who  shall  be  worthy  to  hear  of  his  glory  ? 
How  chant  the  praises  of  him  who  is  gone  ? 
Who  blazon  the  deeds  that  our  soldier  has  done  ? 

Ye,  who  have  marched  with  him,  camped  with  him, 

fought  with  him, 
On   plain   and   on  mountain -side,    swamp   and 

redoubt, 

Ye  who  have  thrilled  at  the  voice  of  the  leader,  — 
Comrades  of  Grant,  it  is  time  to  speak  out! 

"3 


U4  1J>*  5D*ab  ^Harriot 


Tell  of  the  soul  that  knew  no  hesitation, 
The  warrior  born,  a  stranger  to  fear, 

The  sun  in  the  gloom  of  the  land's  desolation, 
That  banished  the  tempest,    and   brought   her 
sons  cheer. 

Who  now  dare  murmur  a  word  of  disfavor  ? 

Who  breathe  a  slander  to  tarnish  his  fame  ? 
Who  grudge  a  tear  to  the  country's  savior? 

Who  not  bend  low  at  the  sound  of  his  name  ? 

Soldiers  of  Grant,  who  went  down  in  the  battle, 
Whose  bones  have  long  moldered  in  the  South 
and  the  North, 

Come  from  your  graves!   't  is  no  musketry's  rattle 
That  bids  you,  dead  heroes,  arise  and  stand  forth. 

Come  in  your  shadowy,  awful  battalions, 

For  the  hand  of  the  leader  is  waiting  for  you,  — 

You  who  met  death  when  he  bade  you,  and  flinched 

not, 
The  valor  he  trusted,  the  brave  hearts  he  knew. 

'Mid  the  muffled  drum's  beat  and  the  wail  of  the 

bugle, 
And  the  swell  of  the  organ  in  mournfulest  song, 


flfllarttor  115 


Comes  the  murmur  of  these,  the  Republic's  dead 

soldiers, 
Whose  legions  outnumber  the  sable-clad  throng. 

And  sentries,  unseen,  by  his  grave  will  pass  slowly, 
Side  by  side  with  the  living  who  honor  that  rest. 

Let  us  go  —  for  the  slumber  of  heroes  is  holy; 
They  who  died  at  his  bidding  have  loved  him  the 
best. 


THE    WORKERS 

OURS  is  the  earnest  strife, 

Who  write  and  think, 
And  press  the  grapes  of  life 

That  you  may  drink. 
We  lay  our  dearest  treasure 

Before  your  feet, 
Nor  pause  the  gift  to  measure, 

So  it  be  sweet. 

When  we  the  work  have  wrought, 

And  gained  the  goal, 
And  wrung  the  glowing  thought 

From  burning  soul, 
To  you  the  key  is  given 

That  we  have  won; 
No  heed  how  hearts  be  riven, 

So  it  be  done. 

Our  offspring  born  in  fears, 

For  you  to  toil, 
Rewarded  us  with  tears  — 

You  with  the  spoil. 

116 


117 


Our  homes  are  gaunt  and  bare  — 

Yours  rich  indeed; 
And  yet  we  smile  at  care  — 

Such  is  our  creed. 

We  only  lip  the  brink  — 

You  quaff  the  whole; 
What  need  to  brood  or  think  — 

You  have  our  soul. 
We  only  reach  the  door  — 

You  gain  the  aisle. 
Our  hearts  are  sad  and  sore, 

That  you  may  smile. 

Our  cheeks  are  pale  and  wan  — 

Yours  flushed  with  health; 
And  still  we  struggle  on, 

But  not  for  wealth. 
That  you  may  read  and  learn, 

And  gain  in  mind  — 
For  this  we  toil,  nor  turn 

To  look  behind. 

And  if  we  dream  at  all, 

Or  dare  to  trust, 
The  boon  is  very  small: 

That  our  poor  dust 


us  <gtf)e  Qfliotktrg 


(When  weary  brain  is  calm, 

And  peace  is  met ) 
The  friends  we  gave  the  palm 

Shall  not  forget. 


INTO    GOD'S   HANDS 

INTO  God's  hands,  than  yours,  which  bore 
Through  dreary  years  the  martyr's  crown, 

The  placid  face  that  never  wore 
The  shadow  of  rebellious  frown. 

When  airs  were  soft,  I  've  seen  you  lie 
On  slopes  that  overlooked  the  sea, 

With  poet's  speech  and  kindling  eye 
Dwelling  on  all  its  mystery. 

In  rustling  leaf,  in  song  of  bird, 
In  pipe-quail  from  the  wooded  hill, 

The  glory  of  a  song  you  heard, 

Which  seemed  your  inmost  soul  to  fill, — 

Until  you  overflowed  with  song, 

And  I,  reclining  at  your  side, 
Have  marked  its  torrent  clear  and  strong, 

And  drank  the  sweetness  of  its  tide. 

What  loss  is  ours,  who  ne'er  can  place 

Another  king  upon  thy  throne, 
Nor  looking  on  that  tranquil  face, 

Bask  in  a  sunshine  all  its  own ! 
119 


120  jnto  C&oli'g 


O  soul,  whose  wealth  of  charity 

Was  boundless  as  the  waves,  and  grand 

As  the  tall  hills  you  loved  to  see 
Loom  high  above  the  level  land! 

O  heart,  as  warm  as  is  the  beam 

That  lights  the  landscape  where  you  caught 
In  many  a  pleasant  noonday  dream 

The  beauty  of  the  poet  thought! 

Shall  we  no  more,  when  toil  and  grief 
With  iron  bands  our  minds  oppress, 

Gather  from  thee  a  kind  relief, 

Reflecting  thy  great  peacefulness? 

Your  grave  shall  be  a  double  one  — 
One  for  the  soulless,  perished  clay, 

Where  through  the  hours  the  generous  sun 
Shall  shed  its  brightest,  warmest  ray,  — 

The  other,  in  our  breasts,  a  shrine  — 
A  shield  against  the  cold  years'  rust, 

For  memories  for  our  love  and  thine 
Till  heart  and  shrine  with  thee  are  dust. 


THE    COLOR   OF   GOLD 

CHEER  up,  old  friend,  and  forget  the  past, 

The  months  of  discomfort,  disease,  and  cold. 
Come,  look  in  this  pan  —  we '  ve  struck  it  at  last ! 

Here,  my  boy,  is  a  color  of  gold. 
Color  of  gold !     Ah !  three  years  ago, 

In  the  season  when  daisies  their  sweets  unfold, 
I  said,  "  Farewell!  't  is  the  hour  to  go," — 

And  I  kissed  her  ringlets  —  the  color  of  gold. 

We  've  worked  together,  Jim,  side  by  side, 

In  snow  and  in  rain,  as  men  work  for  life  — 
I  for  a  sunny-haired,  blue-eyed  bride, 

You  for  your  winsome  and  waiting  wife  — 
And  though  others  around  us  made  their  pile, 

Ever  to  us  fell  the  barren  claim. 
Patient  endurance  and  ceaseless  toil 

Availed  us  nothing  —  luck  was  the  same. 

But  we  never  lost  heart;  for  well  we  knew, 

If  prayers  for  the  wanderers  are  heard  in  heaven — 

The  sweetheart's  for  me,  and  the  wife's  for  you  — 
That  were  each  hour  for  our  safety  given, 


122  Hty  Color  ot  (Bolti 


Would  sooner  or  later  turn  the  tide, 

Bring  us  out  victors  at  last  in  the  strife  — 

Give  to  my  arms  the  trusting  bride, 
Give  to  your  arms  the  faithful  wife. 

Oh!   the  sweet  home  meadows,   the  blithe  brown 

brook, 

That  caught  its  tints  from  verdure  and  sky; 
The  old  bent  willow,  that  sheltered  the  nook, 
Where  in  drowsy  noontime  we  used  to  lie; 
And  beyond  the  river,  the  reaches  of  sand 

Which  the  west  wind   flecked  with  the  yellow 

spume; 
The  jagged  reefs,  where  the  tall  rocks  stand, 

With  their  rough  breasts  bared  to  the  breakers' 
fume! 

But  we  never  lost  heart;  for  well  we  knew, 

If  prayers  for  the  wanderers  are  heard  in  heaven  — 
The  sweetheart's  for  me,  and  the  wife's  for  you  — 

That  were  each  hour  for  our  safety  given, 
Would  sooner  or  later  turn  the  tide, 

Bring  us  out  victors  at  last  in  the  strife  — 
Give  to  my  arms  the  trusting  bride, 

Give  to  your  arms  the  faithful  wife. 


MISSION   DOLORES 

AWAY  from  the  din  of  the  city, 

From  the  mart  and  the  bustling  street, 

Stands  the  old  church  of  the  Mission, 
With  the  graveyard  at  its  feet. 

Here  alone  in  the  silence  and  shadow 

The  crumbling  belfries  cast, 
Lie  the  dust  of  the  Spanish  founders 

Who  reared  the  pile  in  the  past. 

The  willows  and  tall  marsh-mallows 
Grow  rank  and  luxuriant  between 

The  monuments  moldered  and  ruined, 
The  pathways  neglected  and  green. 

There  are  curious  Spanish  inscriptions 
On  the  headstones,  moss-grown  and  gray, 

Bidding  those  who  stand  over  the  sleepers 
"  Be  thoughtful  and  pause  to  pray." 

And  sometimes  a  Spanish  woman, 
Veiled  and  dark-eyed  and  brown, 

When  the  Angelus  peals  from  the  belfry, 
By  the  graves  of  her  people  kneels  down, 

123 


124  aptegion  2D0Iott0 


And  tells  her  beads  with  devotion 

For  the  sleeper's  eternal  rest, 
Then  noiselessly  passes  outward, 

With  a  flower  from  the  grave  in  her  breast. 


THE   SINGER 
(TO  INA  COOLBRITH)* 

I  HOLD  that  every  brook  that  flows 
From  mountain  crest,  by  dale  and  glen, 
Now  near,  now  far  from  haunts  of  men, 
Now  where  the  gnarled  alder  grows, 
And  swift  by  ferny  banks  again, 
Then  slow  o'er  shallows  on  the  lea, 
As  loath  to  meet  the  yearning  sea, 
Calls  to  the  poet,  "  Come,  old  friend, 
And  chant  a  song  in  praise  of  me. 

"Sing  of  the  tiny  crystal  well, 
Deep  hidden  in  the  jealous  earth, 
From  which  I  take  my  feeble  birth, 
But  gather  strength  and  vigor;  sing 
A  song  in  praise  of  every  spring. 
Tell  of  the  sun's  hot  kisses;  say 
How  moonbeams  steal  at  close  of  day 
To  tell  me  that  they  love  me  best 
When  my  bold  lover  seeks  the  West, 
And  in  their  silvery  arms  caressed 
His  fevered  kisses  fade  away." 

*  Written  for  the  occasion  of  the  Bohemian  Club's  testimonial  to 
Ina  Coolbrith,  and  read  by  Mr.  O'Connell  in  person. 

"5 


I  hold  that  every  forest  tree, 

Sedate  and  grand  in  solemn  mood, 

Arouses  from  its  solitude 

And  rustles  all  impetuously 

Its  myriad  leaves,  when,  dreaming,  strays 

The  poet  into  woodland  ways; 

And  bids  the  breeze  to  give  it  voice 

To  bid  a  dreamer  to  rejoice, 

And  sing  its  generous  shade,  its  grace, 

A  jewel  in  the  earth's  fair  face, 

Its  foliage  green, —  till  men  depart 

From  noisy  street  and  toilsome  mart 

To  bless  the  trees  with  praiseful  heart. 

I  hold  that  even  the  restless  sea, 
In  all  its  power  and  majesty, 
Craves  from  the  poet's  soul  a  song. 
Bids  him  forget  the  bitter  wrong 
Of  strong  ships  cast  on  iron  coast 
To  sands  which  cast  them  back  again, 
To  show  how  futile,  weak,  and  vain 
Man's  skill  its  fury  to  enchain; 
Bids  him  forget,  and  chant  the  sea 
Its  glory  and  tranquillity, 
Its  likeness  to  eternity. 


fetnget  127 


A  sweet  and  true  interpreter 

Stream,  wood,  and  sea  have  found  in  her 

We  honor  now;  for  she  can  read 

In  nature's  book,  the  lay  of  lays, 

The  lessons  of  the  flower  and  seed, 

The  song  of  songs,  until  we  raise 

Our  dim,  sad  eyes  from  grosser  things 

To  brighten  as  the  poet  sings. 

She  tells  us  what  the  sea  has  told 

Her  watchings  on  the  sands  of  gold. 

The  language  of  the  murmuring  leaf, 

The  rustle  of  the  yellow  sheaf, 

To  her  are  true  and  clear  and  plain, — 

And,  drinking  in  her  joyous  strain, 

We  bid  her  sing  and  sing  again. 


THE   LAST   POOL 

THROUGH  the  murmuring  sycamore  branches 
Swept  the  breeze  from  the  south,  fresh  and  cool, 

And  the  hues  of  the  leaves,  autumn-tinted, 
Lay  in  trembling  sheen  on  the  pool. 

The  song  of  the  stream  had  been  silenced 

In  the  heat  of  the  summer  past, 
And  in  all  the  bed  of  the  river 

This  leaf-shadowed  pool  was  the  last. 

This  last,  lone  pool  of  the  river, 

In  the  shade  of  the  sycamore-tree, 
To  the  heart  of  the  man  world-weary 

Had  a  type  and  a  likeness  for  me. 

When  the  heats  of  passion  are  over, 

And  hope  gives  way  to  distrust; 
When  the  brightness  and  joy  of  existence 

Are  dimmed  with  canker  and  rust; 

Though  all  may  seem  arid  and  worthless, 

And  the  founts  of  feeling  be  dry, 
There  is  still  in  the  soul,  close  guarded, 

Remote  from  the  passers-by, 
128 


2U0t  Pool  129 


One  spring,  which  wears  all  the  freshness 
Of  the  days  when  the  heart  was  green  — 

One  spot,  like  the  pool  in  the  river, 
Fair  and  pure  in  its  shadow  and  sheen. 

When  the  traveler,  footsore  and  weary, 

Comes  suddenly,  unprepared, 
On  a  river  pool,  lonely  and  lovely, 

Which  the  heats  of  summer  have  spared, 

His  heart  is  filled  with  thanksgiving, 
And  he  blesses  the  path  which  led 

His  steps  to  this  secret  beauty 
In  the  sandy  river-bed. 

So,  when  the  human-hearted 

Find,  in  the  darkest  breast, 
This  spring,  which  has  never  yielded 

To  the  heats  that  consumed  the  rest, 

They  bless  the  hope  it  brings  them  : 
That  the  showers  will  some  time  come, 

When  the  silent  current  of  feeling 
Shall  no  longer  be  dry  and  dumb. 


DEAD    IN   THE   MINE 

FIRE  and  death  in  the  mine! 

Weeping  and  woe, 
Women  with  pallid  faces, 
At  the  mouth  of  the  shaft  above, 
Asking  for  those  they  love, 

Hurrying  to  and  fro. 

Thank  God  for  this:  "  All  saved! 

Welcome  to  life!" 
All?     Oh,  horror,  that  cry  — 

Hold  the  poor  wife! 
1  *  They  are  not  —  they  are  not!    Ye  lie! 

Jem's  in  the  mine." 

"  Back,  lads  —  Jem  's  my  mate." 

Forward  he  broke. 
Lower  him — "Steady,  boys,  now!" 
Into  the  smoke  and  the  fire, 
Now  climbing  higher  and  higher, 

Into  the  mine. 

130 


SDeati  in  t&e  Qfrint 


A  roar  and  a  shock,  and  like  thunder 
The  timbers  are  torn  asunder. 

Death  in  the  mine! 

Tread  softly,  oh  men,  and  speak  low  — 
A  hero  is  lying  below, 

Dead  in  the  mine! 


THE   OLD   SAILOR 

HE  is  tawny  and  bronzed  with  the  fervor 

Of  summers  in  tropical  lands; 
His  arms  are  powerful  and  brawny, 

Like  a  vise-grip  the  clasp  of  his  hands, 
And  an  odor  of  tar  and  tobacco 

Is  perceived  round  the  place  where  he  stands. 

He  tells  of  the  wonderful  islands 

Embosomed  in  southern  seas, 
And  of  marvelous  matters  in  China  — 

Of  typhoons,  and  Mandarin  teas, 
And  of  shores  where  the  barbarous  natives 

Live,  like  birds,  in  the  branches  of  trees. 

He  can  boast  of  a  brush  with  the  pirates, 

When  he  captured  a  murderous  crew 
A  mile  off  the  coast  of  Sumatra, 
/-      And  himself  a  bold  buccaneer  slew  — 
And'  he  shows  you  the  scar  on  his  shoulder, 
convince  you  his  yarn  is  true. 
132 


flDld  feailot  133 


And  when  strolling  along  by  the  shipping, 
With  anger  he  's  ready  to  choke 

At  the  iron  and  composite  vessels 

That  were  better  of  teak  and  stout  oak, 

And  he  swears  that  their  silly  inventor 
Was  a  pig-headed,  ignorant  bloke. 

I  am  fond  of  this  honest  old  sailor, 
With  his  whimsical  nautical  tales  — 

His  shooting  of  tigers  in  India, 
His  capture  of  monstrous  whales, 

And  the  spectral  ships  that  have  passed  him 
Without  rudders,  or  seamen,  or  sails. 


ON   THE   BANKS   OF   THE   NILE 

You  ask  me  whence  this  silver  ring, 

Where  serpents  intertwine, 
An  odd,  antique,  and  fragile  thing, 

Of  quaint  and  strange  design. 

A  hundred  miles  from  Thebes,  or  more, 

On  Nile's  banks,  one  day, 
A  Nubian  maiden  gave  this  ring 

And  stole  my  heart  away. 

She  watched  her  father's  herds  —  I  came 
And  begged  a  cooling  draught; 

She  hid  her  face  with  virgin  shame 
While  I  the  water  quaffed. 

Somehow  —  I  know  not  how,  I  swear  — 

The  incident  occurred; 
Though  she  was  dark,  and  I  was  fair, 

And  not  a  single  word 

She  spoke,  was  understood  by  me, 
Nor  knew  she  Saxon  tongue, 

But  we  were  quite  alone,  and  she 
Was  graceful,  kind,  and  young. 
134 


t&e  25anfcg  ot  tfie  jRtte        135 


And  so  we  fell  in  love  outright, 
And  while  the  Nile  rolled  by, 

Her  Nubian  eyes  were  sweet  and  bright, 
And  soft  her  maiden  sigh. 

Of  course,  we  '11  never  meet  again; 

And  yet  I  often  think 
Of  her,  and  love's  delicious  pain 

By  Nile's  level  brink. 


AN   ARCHERY   IDYL 

POISING  her  bow  in  dainty  hand, 

Clad  in  a  suit  of  Lincoln-green, 
With  head  erect  and  steadfast  tread, 

She  looked  indeed  an  archer  queen. 

Fair  Marian,  bold  Robin's  bride, 

Who  followed  the  hart  thro'  forest  glade, 
Ne'er  bent  a  bow  with  better  grace 

Than  she,  this  winsome  city  maid. 

Her  tiny  foot  was  planted  firm 

Upon  the  sod;  her  lithe  white  wrist 

Drew  back  the  string;  the  light  shaft  flew  — 
But,  aimed  too  high,  the  target  missed. 

11 1  '11  try  and  hit  the  gold,"  she  said; 

The  arrow-plumes  her  cheek  caressed. 
I  murmured,  "  Were  those  plumes  my  lips, 

Sweet  woodland  nymph,  then  I  were  blest." 

I  spoke  too  loud.    She  turned  aside 
In  pretty  wrath  to  one  who  knew 

His  heavy  purse  was  all  the  claim 
He  brought  this  archer-maid  to  woo. 

136 


Sin  SLttfyty  3&i?l  137 

"I'm  sure  to  hit  the  gold,"  she  said. 

Her  bow  she  raised,  and  shot  with  strength; 
The  arrow  struck  with  force,  but  missed 

The  center  by  a  bodkin's  length. 

She  leaned  upon  my  rival's  arm; 

They  wandered  down  the  pleasant  slope. 
1 '  I  know  he  loves  her  —  and  his  wealth, 

His  lands  and  houses,  give  him  hope. 

*  *  O  that  I  were  a  border-knight, 

With  ten  good  bowmen  in  my  band, 

I '  d  bear  her  off —  and  yon  rich  fool 

Should  feel  the  keen  edge  of  my  brand." 

An  hour  or  so,  we  met  again. 

Now  for  my  fate:   "  Tell  me,"  I  said, 
"  If  since  we  shot  at  yonder  mark 

Your  shaft  has  hit  the  gold,  sweet  maid." 

She  blushed;  her  story  then  I  knew 
Ere  she  replied,  ' '  My  archer  bold, 

For  you,  my  own  beloved  one, 

I  gladly,  dearest,  missed  the  gold. ' ' 


OUTCAST 

OUT  on  the  pavement,  foggy  and  damp, 
Streams  the  brilliant  glare  of  the  lamp, 
And  the  homeless,  shrinking,  hungry  tramp, 
Whose  haggard  features  bear  the  stamp 

Of  sin  and  ruin  and  crime, 

Peers  through  the  blinds  at  the  glittering  throng, 
And  rapt  in  the  music  and  blaze  and  song, 
Forgets  her  harvest  of  sorrow  and  wrong, 

In  a  dream  of  the  olden  time. 

And  the  windy  streets  are  fields  and  woods, 
And  she  hears  the  ripple  of  pleasant  floods, 
And  the  shadowy  houses  are  fields  in  May, 
And  the  foggy  night  is  a  summer's  day, 

And  the  old  love-tale  is  spoken. 
But  the  hand  of  the  officer  warns  her  on, 
The  dream  has  vanished,  the  joy  is  gone, 

The  spell  of  the  past  is  broken. 


138 


ROVER 

IN  a  grave  unmarked  by  stone  or  mound,  beneath 

a  tall  fir-tree, 
Lies  the  dust  of  one  for  many  years  a  faithful  friend 

to  me; 
No  guile  dwelt  in  his  dark  brown  eye,  his  heart  was 

solely  mine  — 
A  great  big  heart  of  fire  and  love  which  ached  to 

give  some  sign 
Beyond  the  province  of  his  race,  to  show  how  much 

he  loved 
The  hand  that  fed  him  morn  and  night,  the  accents 

that  approved 
The  steady  point,  the  quick  retrieve,  and  all  the 

canine  lore, 
My  poor  friend' s  pride  on  hot  hill-side,  or  on  the 

wintry  shore. 

He  scorned  the  cur  of  low  degree,  but  still  was  ever 
kind, — 

For   Rover,   though  of  noble   birth,   possessed  a 
gentle  mind, — 

But  to  his  peers  the  threatening  growl  and  gleam 
ing  teeth  displayed, 
139 


140 


Declared  that  if  they  cared  for  fight,  why,  he  was 

not  dismayed. 
No  woman  gentler  than  he,  no  woman' sways  more 

mild, — 

A  lion  to  his  foes,  to  me  as  playful  as  a  child; 
And  when  the  world  looked  black  and  strange,  his 

eyes  on  mine  would  rest, 
So  full  of  love,  I  'd  swear  he  knew  the  sorrow  in  my 

breast. 

And  when  my  poor  dog  passed  away,   I  dug  his 

grave  alone, 
Beneath  a  tall  fir's    kindly  shade,   unmarked  by 

mound  or  stone, 
But  in  my  heart  the  sense  of  loss  was  keen  and 

bitter  pain, 
Nor  do  I  blush  to  own  my  tears  fell  on  that  grave 

like  rain. 
Sometimes,    sometimes    I    dare    to    hope   in   that 

mysterious  land, 
That   when   the   veil   is   rent   aside,  and  all  may 

understand, 
The  soul-gem  in   that   casket,    so    great,    though 

humbly  set, 
Has  not  perished  with  the  clay, —  so  he,  my  dog, 

may  greet  me  yet. 


TREES 

KISSING  the  streams 

As  they  glide  toward  the  sea; 
Shading  the  wild  flowers 

That  grow  on  the  lea; 
Telling,  in  murmurs, 

A  tale  to  the  breeze; 
Friends  of  humanity, 

Beautiful  trees! 

Trees  of  the  forest, 

Majestically  grand; 
Trees  by  the  castle, 

The  pride  of  the  land; 
Trees  guarding  kindly 

The  laborer's  door; 
Knowing  no  level, 

No  rich  and  no  poor. 

Trees  of  the  lonely, 

Untenanted  glen; 
Trees  of  the  city, 

'Mid  bustle  of  men; 
141 


142 


Trees  sadly  waving 

'Mid  homes  of  the  dead, 

Tenderly  shading 

Each  slumbering  head. 

On  hill-side  or  forest, 

In  village  or  glen, 
Your  presence  is  ever 

A  blessing  to  men; 
Your  rustling  voices, 

When  zephyrs  are  near, 
To  each  tells  the  story 

He  longs  most  to  hear. 

To  lovers  you  whisper 

Of  dear  joys  to  come; 
The  wanderer  listens 

To  breathings  of  home, 
The  poet  dreams  fondly 

Of  laurels  to  win; 
And  you  speak  to  the  fallen 

Of  mercy  for  sin. 

And  thus  we  may  gather 

Good  words  from  your  leaves, 

And  drink  in  the  lessons 
That  flow  from  the  trees; 


143 


And,  like  you,  growing  higher 
Each  day  from  the  sod, 

So  may  we,  grown  purer, 
Draw  nearer  to  God. 


THE   TRUE   PHILOSOPHER 

I  HOLD  the  true  philosopher 

Not  he  who  wears  a  solemn  frown  — 
Who  speaks  alone  of  those  who  err, 

And  swears  the  world  is  upside  down  ; 
Who  aims  at  every  shining  mark 

The  shafts  of  wisdom  tipped  with  hate  — 
Who  walks  forever  in  the  dark, 

And  deems  men's  lives  are  ruled  by  fate. 

But  he  who  looks  across  the  tide 

Of  troubles  incident  to  man, 
Still  seeking  on  the  other  side 

Fulfillment  of  some  bounteous  plan  — 
Who  feels  men's  hearts  are  made  of  stuff 

That  should  resist  each  petty  grief, 
And  bravely  turns  from  each  rebuff 

Unconquered  in  his  strong  belief. 

Who  mourns  not  for  the  olden  time, 
Declaring,  with  a  somber  sneer, 

The  world  is  more  debased  with  crime, 
And  life  more  wretched  year  by  year, 

144 


'Strut  p&ilogopfjn:          145 


But  boldly  says  that  men  to-day 
Are  nobler  than  they  ever  were, 

And  doubts  this  doctrine  of  decay  — 
He  is  the  true  philosopher. 

The  cynic's  crown  is  lightly  won, 

And  simple  are  his  scornful  ways, 
For,  ever  since  the  world  begun, 

'Tis  easier  to  rail  than  praise. 
A  moment  —  you  may  cloud  the  stream, 

And  dim  its  rippling  breast  with  clay, 
But  it  will  wear  its  silver  sheen 

Again  the  livelong  summer's  day. 

The  morning  sun  that  lights  the  grass 

With  diamond  flashes  from  the  dew, 
The  morning  winds  that,  as  they  pass, 

Waft  dreams  of  flowers  the  lattice  through, 
The  morning  hopes  that  fill  the  heart 

And  all  its  thrilling  pulses  stir, 
When  on  to  bear  his  earnest  part 

Goes  forth  the  true  philosopher,  — 

Are  deep,  convincing  evidence 

That  smiles  befit  us  more  than  tears  — 

That,  call  it  fate  or  providence, 

Some  mighty  power  directs  the  years; 


146 


And  if  we  take  the  good  and  ill, 
And  chide  the  cynic's  heresy, 

With  humble  faith  and  steadfast  will, 
We  have  the  true  philosophy. 


MISSION   ROSES 

"PADRE    MIO,   by  the  Carmel  grows  the   pallid 

Mission  rose, 
Snugly  sheltered  by  the  willows,  where  the  shallow 

river  flows. 

* '  Let  me  gather  some,  my  father,  for  our  pleasant 

home  to-night. 
See,  the  sun  has  but  just  vanished  —  there  is  plenty 

time  and  light. 

' '  I  will  shun  the  quicksand,  father,  and  return  to 

kiss  you  soon; 
Mission  roses  should  be  gathered  by  the  twilight  or 

the  moon." 

Then  Don  Ramon's  only  daughter  kissed  the  old 

man's  withered  lips; 
Deftly  rolled  the  cigarito  in  her  dainty  finger-tips, 

And  Don  Ramon,  smiling,  took  it  from  her  tiny 

dimpled  hand, 
Wondering  where  a  woman  fairer  could  be  found 

in  all  the  land. 

147 


148 


'  '  Mission  roses  should  be  gathered  by  the  twilight 

or  the  moon," 
Hummed  the  old  ranchero's  daughter,   to  a  gay 

Castilian  tune  — 

A  roundelay  that  often,  in  proud,  romantic  Spain, 
Brought  blushing  face  to  lattice,  smiling  from  the 
window-pane. 

But  'tis  not  to  gather  roses  by  the  moon  or  waning 

light, 
That  Inez,  the  dark-eyed  darling,  leaves  her  father's 

porch  to-night: 

Flowers  of  passion  —  poisonous  blossoms,  fatal  to 

a  maiden'  s  breast  — 
Flowers  that  wither  when  we  grasp  them,  are  the 

senorita's  quest. 

Dense  and  tall  the  sheltering  willows  that  line  the 

Carmel's  bank; 
Ferns   and   mosses    grow    between    them    among 

grasses  long  and  dank; 

And  'mid  all,  the  Mission  roses,  pure  and  pallid  as 

the  snow, 
Fill  the  air  with  tender  fragrance  by  the  current's 

quiet  flow. 


fission  IAOGCO  149 

"  Mi  querida,  alma  mia,  Inez  mia  !"    And  her  face, 
Quickly  to  her  lover's  lifted,  meets   his  quicker, 
fond  embrace. 

The  hours  wear  on.     She  lingers  till  the  August 

moonlight  falls 
On  the  river,  on  the  roses,  on  the  Mission's  massive 

walls. 

Flowers  of  passion!      Ah,  poor  roses!— 'mid  the 

willows  you  may  bloom; 
Never  Inez's  hand  shall  pluck  you  by  the  twilight 

or  the  moon. 

Many  days  and  nights  passed  over,  but  never  any 

more 
The  erring  feet  of  Inez  passed  Don  Ramon's  arche'd 

door. 

But  long  after,  when  the  strong  walls  were  leveled 

to  the  ground, 
And  the  Mission  bells  were  silent,  and  the  house  a 

nameless  mound, 

A  woman,  wan  and  stricken,  prone  upon  the  ruin 

lay, 
And  moaned  and  wept  and  muttered,  and  kissed 

the  crumbling  clay, 


150 


And  sobbed  out  her  life  in  sorrow  for  the  shame 

of  twenty  years  — 
When  she  left  to  gather  roses,  and  found  disgrace 

and  tears. 


THE   REFUGEE 

A  VARYING  scene  of  mist  and  sun, 

Of  sleeping  bay,  and  purple  hill ; 
And  thither,  when  the  day  is  done, 

And  all  the  noisy  world  is  still, 
And  men  sit  down  by  happy  hearths, 

And  merry  voices  fill  the  air, 
And  night's  dark  mantle  folds  the  earth, 

I  come,  a  refugee  from  care. 

I  come:  the  hacienda's  door 

Is  opened  wide,  its  master  stands 
Upon  the  threshold,  and  warm  hands 

Clasp  mine — a  welcome,  o'er  and  o'er 
Repeated,  bids  me  cast  away 
The  cares  and  cankers  of  the  day. 

The  calm  of  softly  flowing  tides 
By  moonlight  silvered,  visits  me; 
I  gaze,  and  gather  from  the  sea 

A  peace  which  in  my  soul  abides; 
And  like  the  sea-bird,  storm-tossed, 

That  seeks  at  last  the  sheltering  rock, 


152  tlfje  l&rfugee 


And  safe  from  all  the  tempest's  shock, 

Sleeps  high  above  the  foam-lashed  coast, 
I  fold  my  wings; —  shine  on,  pale  moon, 
The  day  of  parting  comes  too  soon! 


IN  MEMORY 

WHEN  the  toiler  in  the  morning  goes  forth  to  sow 

the  seed, 
His  brown  hands  full  of  garnered  grain,  and  his 

footsteps  free  and  bold, 
Through  all  his  weary  labor  he  is  thinking  of  the 

meed, 
When  Autumn's  russet  mantle  shall  the  teeming 

earth  enfold. 

• 

The   ploughshare   shapes   the  furrow,  the  seed  is 

scattered  wide, 
And  the  winter  rains  fall  kindly  upon  the  thirsty 

field, 

And  the  toiler's  heart  is  gladdened,  as  he  contem 
plates  with  pride 

The    rich  reward  of  labor  the  harvesting  shall 
yield. 

Midst  the  singing  of  the  sailors,  across  the  harbor- 
bar, 

The  tall  ship  moves,  her  gliding  keel  the  foaming 
waters  spurn, 

153 
K 


154  3n 


And  many  watch  her  progress,  and  bless  her  from 

afar  — 

Their  farewells  filled  with  yearning  for  the  noble 
bark's  return. 

But  by  the  storm  that  gallant  ship  is  stricken,  and 

the  wreck 

The  hurricane  has  driven  upon  the  iron  shore, 
And  drowned  men  are  lying  upon  her  shattered 

deck, 
And  they  who  watched  her  from  the  port  shall 

never  see  her  more. 

• 

And  the  harvest  for  the  reaper  is  naught  but  tare 

and  weed, 
For  the  heavens  withheld  their  moisture,  there 

was  naught  but  drought  with  frost; 
There  is  no  single  blade  of  corn  that  born  is  from 

the  seed, 

And  the  labor  of  the  husbandman  is  futile  all, 
and  lost. 

But  patiently  he  sows  the  grain  and  trusts   another 

year, 

And  gallantly  another  ship  goes  forth  upon  the 
sea, 


3n  Memory  155 


And  the  sailor's  sturdy  bosom  a  stranger  is  to  fear, 
And  the  husbandman  looks  forward  to  his  harvest 
from  the  lea. 

Ah!    such  was  he,  the  statesman,  the  great,  the 

honored  dead, 
Who  for  many  a  well-sown  harvest  reaped  naught 

but  tare  and  weed, 
Saw  many  a  gallant  ship  go  down,  but  never  bowed 

his  head, 

Still  sending  ships  upon  the  sea,  still  sowing  the 
good  seed. 

O  mind  above  all  selfish  ends!    O  true,   majestic 

soul! 
In  the  hour  of  party  triumph  you  passed  away 

to  God; 
And  the  bells  that  rang  out  paean  were  mingled 

with  the  toll 

Of  the  funeral  bells  that  thrilled  us  when  they 
placed  you  'neath  the  sod. 

Beyond   ambitious    promptings,    beyond   the   fair 

reward 

Of  those  who  loved  and  praised  him,  he  held  the 
Nation's  peace, 


156  Jn 


And  he  drank  the  bitter  chalice,  and  though  the 

task  was  hard, 

He  calmed  an  angry  faction,  and  bade  the  storm 
to  cease. 

O    patriot   heart!    that   steadfastly  in  that  fierce, 

threatening  time, 
When  wrong  was  bold  and  rampant,  and  when  a 

single  word 

Would  have  plunged  the  land  in  conflict,  with  sac 
rifice  sublime, 

Resigned  thy  well- won  laurels,  and  sheathed  the 
half-drawn  sword. 

Thou  art  gone  from  us,  the  leader,  the  learned,  and 

the  sage, 

After  years  of  fruitless  sowing  you  saw  the  har 
vest  wave, 
In   the  story  of  our  statesmen  thou  shalt  have  a 

brilliant  page, 

And  a  Nation,  not  a  party,  shall  weep  above  thy 
grave. 


THE    ROSE  AND   THE   WIND 

THE    WIND. 

I  KISS  thee,  Rose,  invoking  gentle  showers, 

And  dew  and  rain, 
And  tender  growth,  that  morning's  sunny  hours 

Be  not  in  vain. 

THE    ROSE. 

Thy  kiss  is  death  —  a  deadly,  poisoned  greeting, 

Thou  Winter  Wind! 
Go!  pass  me  by,  and  cease  thy  wild  entreating; 

Be  not  unkind. 

THE    WIND. 

Alas!  my  Rosebud,  dost  not  remember 

The  glowing  day 
I  pressed  thy  lips  with  kisses  tender  — 

Only  last  May? 
I  was  a  Zephyr  then  —  the  South  my  mother; 

My  breath  so  sweet. 

You  cried:  "Oh,   cease;    my  perfume,  love,  you 
smother. 

Too  fond  you  greet. ' ' 
157 


158         TOe  !&o0e  anti  t&e  dfllmti 

THE    ROSE. 

Your  kiss,  O  Wind,  in  May  came  with  a  blessing; 

'Tis  not  a  blight. 
With  joy  I  hailed  your  sensuous  caressing 

Through  all  the  night. 

THE   WIND. 

The  bird  awakened  from  his  evening  slumber, 

And  cried:   "Desist! 
Shame  on  thee,  Rosebud!  Zephyr,  can  you  number 

How  oft  you've  kissed?" 
Were  you  but  faithful  —  though  my  kiss  the  urn 

To  clasp  your  dust  — 

You'd  cry,  "Old  friend,  your  memories  sweet  I 
burn; 

With  love  I  thirst!" 

THE    ROSE. 

Tho'  death  should  follow  —  one  kiss  for  the  olden, 

The  vanished  May! 
And  let  it  be  sweet,  as  in  sunsets  golden  — 

The  self-same  way. 

O  power  of  love!     O  power  of  faith  and  duty! 

The  kiss  was  given; 
And,  soft,  the  true  soul,  grand  in  dying  beauty, 

Passed  up  to  Heaven. 


ALONE 

HERE  we  are  seated,  you  and  I, 

The  blinds  drawn  close,  the  waiter  gone, 

And  yet  you  glance  at  me  and  sigh, 
And  wish  that  we  were  not  alone. 

With  abstract  air  you  sip  the  wine, 

Toy  with  your  glass,  your  eyes  downcast, — 
Those  troubled  eyes  will  not  meet  mine, 

And  yet  the  time  is  speeding  fast. 

At  last  you  speak, —  a  commonplace. 

I  answer  in  the  same  dull  tone; 
But  still  I  cannot  read  your  face, 

And  we  are  quite  alone. 

The  tumult  of  the  clamorous  street 

Is  borne  toward  our  listless  ears. 
O  moments  that  should  be  so  sweet! 

O  idle  hopes!     O  foolish  fears! 

The  silence  grows.    Was  it  for  this 
We  were  so  bold,  we  dared  so  much  ? 

Not  one  dear  word,  not  one  fond  kiss, 
No  tender  glance,  no  loving  touch. 

159 


160  &101U 

Was  it  for  this  we  dared  and  schemed  ? 

An  hour  of  silence  —  are  we  changed  ? 
Is  this  the  meeting  so  long  dreamed  ? 

What  spell  has  thus  our  souls  estranged? 

What  is  it  that  repels  us  ?     Why 

Do  we  forget  the  vows  of  old  ? 
Her  lips  are  opened  but  to  sigh, 

And  we  are  both  so  cold. 

She  glances  at  her  watch.      "  And  now," 
She  murmuring  faintly,  "  we  must  part." 

I  rise  and  touch  her  chill,  pale  brow, 
I  mark  the  beating  of  her  heart. 

I  know  we  stand  upon  the  brink, 
I  know  that  fate  our  paths  divide, 

I  know  we  never  more  may  drink 
The  chalice  now  we  push  aside. 

Yet  hand  in  hand  we  slow  descend 
The  stairs,  the  last  of  all  the  guests : 

One  farewell  clasp.     She  whispers,  "Friend, 
'Twas  for  the  best, — 'twas  for  the  best." 


BERRYING 

THE  berries  stained  her  dimpled  face, 
And  dyed  her  white  dress  here  and  there, 

As  standing,  with  a  laughing  grace, 
She  twined  the  tendrils  in  her  hair. 

The  brambles  round  her  fondly  clung  — 
I  envied  branch  and  thorn  that  day  — 

The  very  woodland,  when  she  sung, 

Seemed  hushed,  and  listening  to  her  lay. 

The  pines,  that  lined  the  shadowed  lane, 
And  grew  far  down  the  rugged  brake, 

Had  changed  their  weird  and  sad  refrain 
To  one  glad  paean,  for  her  sake. 

The  purpled  lips,  so  full  and  sweet; 

The  dainty  hand,  so  round  and  fair  — 
I  could  have  fallen  at  her  feet, 

In  worship  of  her,  smiling  there. 

Another  June,  and  in  the  wood, 

Among  the  berries  in  the  lane, 
I  stand  where  once  my  idol  stood, 

But  where  she  ne'er  shall  stand  again. 

161 


162 


Comes  from  the  pines  a  dreary  dirge; 

Comes  from  the  sea  a  solemn  moan; 
And,  oh!  your  wailing,  wood  and  surge, 

Is  but  an  echo  of  mine  own. 


THE  ANGELUS 

WHEN  the  Angelus  bell  is  ringing, 
And  the  shadows  are  creeping  down, 

A  far-off  echo  is  bringing, 

Distinct  'mid  the  hum  of  the  town, 

A  silvery  voice,  which  sayeth, 

"  O  friend,  when  the  Angelus  tolls, 

And  the  pious,  on  bent  knees,  prayeth 
For  the  peace  of  translated  souls, 

"  For  thee  my  voice  will  be  given, 
My  prayers  for  thee  will  ascend 

To  the  loftiest  vaults  of  heaven, 
Beloved  and  cherished  friend. ' ' 

When  the  Angelus  bell  is  ringing 
From  belfries  high  in  the  air, 

On  swift  pinions  my  soul  is  winging 
Its  way  to  that  friend  in  prayer. 

'Mid  all  life's  tribulations, 

'Mid  its  worry  and  crosses  and  pain, 
Comes  this  reigning  consolation, 

This  sense  of  immortal  gain: 
163 


I64 


That  whether  my  burden  be  shifted 
Or  no,  there  is  one  who  prays, 

Whose  gentle  voice  is  uplifted 
For  my  welfare  in  thorny  ways. 


IN   SIR   HUMPHREY'S   HALL 

OUTSIDE  the  castle  shrieked  the  wind, 

The  snow  was  on  the  moor, 
God' s  mercy !  '  t  was  an  awful  night 

For  homeless,  wandering  poor. 

But  in  Count  Humphrey's  hall,  the  logs 

Blazed  high  upon  the  hearth, 
And  all  about  the  vassals  thronged 

To  share  his  Christmas  mirth. 

Ye  wassail-bowl,  filled  to  the  brim, 

Went  merrily  around, 
And  all  was  jest  and  mirth  within, 

Though  snow  lay  on  the  ground. 

The  waits  had  sung  their  greeting  song 

Outside  the  castle  wall, 
And  bidden  now  the  guests  among, 

They  sat  within  the  hall. 

But  though  the  songs  are  loud  and  high 

Within  that  vaulted  room, 
There  's  sadness  in  Count  Humphrey's  eye, 

His  soul  is  filled  with  gloom. 
165 


166         3n  fetr 


Nor  is  the  fair  dame  by  his  side 

Less  sorrow-touched  than  he; 
What  burden  rests  upon  their  pride 

'Midst  all  this  revelry? 

For  Humphrey's  lands  are  broad  and  fair, 

His  vassals  stanch  and  true, 
Nor,  Alice,  dwells  in  English  bowers 

A  fairer  dame  than  you. 

The  harper  of  that  ancient  house 
Then  swept  the  plaintive  chord, 

Yet,  when  the  last  strain  died  away, 
The  Count  said  ne'er  a  word. 

Dame  Alice  spake:    "  Play,  harper,  now 

That  old  and  touching  strain, 
Of  that  young  knight  who  long  had  sought 

A  lady's  hand  in  vain. 

"And  how,  when  in  the  battle  shock 

Before  the  infidel, 
With  her  sweet  name  upon  his  lips 

The  hapless  lover  fell. 

"  And  how  he  sent  her  back  her  gage 
With  his  life's  current  dyed, 


In  &ir  Hump])teg'0  ^all         167 


And  how  she  wept  and  begged  our  Lord 
For  mercy  for  her  pride." 

The  harper  played,  and  while  the  song 

With  sorrow  filled  each  soul, 
A  maiden,  fair  as  poet's  dream, 

Into  the  great  hall  stole. 

Her  hand  about  Count  Humphrey's  neck 

She  placed  with  gentle  grace, 
And  lightly  bent  to  press  a  kiss 

Upon  his  troubled  face. 

The  melody  was  done,  the  bowl 
The  applauding  henchmen  drain. 

"Sing  me,"  quoth  moody  Humphrey  then, 
"  Sing  me  another  strain." 

From  a  dim  corner  in  that  hall, 

Where  armored  figures  stood, 
A  youth  arose,  in  monkish  garb 

Arrayed,  but  cowl  and  hood 

Seemed  ill  to  suit  his  martial  air. 

And  when  his  voice  was  heard, 
A  hush  upon  the  soldiers  fell  — 

None  spake  a  single  word. 


in 


Count  Humphrey's  brow  grew  black  as  night, 

His  daughter's  face  grew  white, 
Dame  Alice  gazed  in  wonderment, 

When  'neath  the  cresset's  light 

The  singer  stood,  and  then  he  told 

A  tale  of  love  and  faith  : 
How,  facing  the  fierce  Saracen, 

A  Knight  had  courted  death. 

But  though,  when  wounded  on  the  field, 

A  blood-stained  gage  he  sent, 
To  her  he  loved,  to  her  whose  pride 

Had  caused  his  banishment, 

He  lived  to  seek  her  father's  hall, 

And  keep  his  knightly  word, 
That  he  would  win  his  lady's  love, 

And  win  it  with  his  sword. 

The  singer  paused,  and  while  appalled 

The  henchmen  all  were  still, 
From  castle-keep  the  great  bell  tolled 

Its  message  of  good-  will. 

"  Put  ye  away,"  the  priests  intone, 
'  '  All  things  of  hate  and  scorn, 


Jn  &ir  l&ump&tey'g  ^all         169 


Peace  and  good-will  to  eagh  to-night 
The  night  that  Christ  was  born.  '  ' 

Down  through  that  vaulted  chamber 
The  Count's  fair  daughter  moved, 

And  kissed  the  singer's  lips,  that  all 
Might  know  the  man  she  loved. 

Then,  as  he  knelt  before  her, 
Once  spurned,  but  now  adored, 

The  massive  arches  echoed  back 
The  message  of  the  Lord. 


GOD'S  FORGOTTEN   POOR 

WHEN  the  feast  is  piled  on   the  table,   and  the 

holly  hangs  over  the  door, 
Whose  heart  shall  go  out  in  yearning  for  God's 

forgotten  poor? 
Is  it  he  of  the   close  communion,   the  Christian 

smug  and  sleek, 
Who  struts  the  aisle  in  his  broadcloth,   caressing 

his  smooth,  plump  cheek? 
Who   sits   in   his  pew,   soft-cushioned,    while  the 

well-paid  parson  above 
Discourses  in  polished  phrases  of  Christ  and  the 

Saviour's  love; 
Who   shudders   whenever   the   harlot  crosses  the 

good  man's  path, 
And  whose  God  is  a  grim   avenger  —  a  God  of 

reprisal  and  wrath? 
Not   he,  so  enfolded   and  sodden,   so  steeped  in 

his  self-conceit, 
That  he'd  spurn  the  penitent  woman  who  knelt 

at  the  Saviour's  feet. 
Who   are   the   chosen  of  Christ,   then,  and   who 

forgotten  by  him? 
170 


(BoU'g  ^Forgotten  Poor 


O    Pharisee,    Christ-detested,    over    thy    pathway 

dim 
And   strewn   with   the   bigot's   error,   forever  the 

cloud  is  rolled  — 
Aye  rolled,  and  dark,  and  threatening,  as  in  the 

days  of  old: 
Is   yon  shivering  pauper,   begging  his  way  from 

door  to  door  — 
Is   he,    O    Pharisee,    counted  of  God's   forgotten 

poor? 
Is  this  woman,   wanton  and  noisy,  whose  shout 

ings  disturb  the  street, 

One  of  the  sinful  outcasts  the  Saviour  used  to  meet, 
And  bless,  and  forgive,  and  warn  to  go  and  sin 

no  more? 
Ah,  then,  who  shall  dare  to  name  them  as  God's 

forgotten  poor? 

Who  are  the  God-forgotten  ?     Who  at  this  season 

of  peace 
Sip  no  goblet  of  loving  pleasure,   know  not  the 

pulse  increase, 
But,  cold  and  custom-ridden,  self-worshiping,  bend 

the  knee 
To   a  Christ  of  their   own   devising,   but   not  — 

ah,  no!  not  He, 


(Boto'g  ^Forgotten 


Who  courted  no  rich  man's  favor,  but  the  lowly 

and  poor  caressed, 
And  who  pillowed  the  vagrant  and  weary  on  his 

holy,  loving  breast. 

If  to-day  the  Christ,  the  preacher  of  the  Sermon 

on  the  Mount, 
Were  to  seek  the  gospel  he  uttered  at  the  Chris 

tian's  boasted  fount, 
And   clad   in   his   humble   garbing,    the   temple's 

threshold  gain, 
And  see  on  its  summit  the  emblem  of  his  sacrifice 

and  pain, 
Who   would  stand  round  about  him?  —  the  poor 

he  loved  of  yore? 
Would  the  Pharisee  lead  the  Pauper  beyond  the 

temple's  door 
To  a  seat  near   the   gaudy  altar  ?      He  'd  spurn 

him,   and  bend  the  knee 
To  crave  from  the  Christ  of  his  fancy  the  grace 

of  humility. 

These  are  the  God-forgotten,  these  of  the  church, 

whose  store 
Is    filled    to    nigh    o'erflowing,   but  who  still  are 

sadly  poor, 


173 


Poor  and  bereft  of  the  feeling,  that  even  the  out 

casts  know  — 
The   joy    in    another's     pleasure,    the    grief    in 

another's  woe; 
These,    the  stony-hearted,   Christian   by   rite   and 

rules, 
With  faith  in  their  world-taught  wisdom,  are  of 

all  others  the  fools. 
Pharisee,  furs  and  diamonds  thy  poverty  flaunts 

the  more; 
Thou,  indeed,  art  the  pauper  of  God's  forgotten 

poor. 


THROUGH   SUN   AND   CLOUD 

A  LONG,  low  wharf,  with  ruined  planks, 
The  swift  tide  eddying  under, 

The  clouds  above,  in  gloomy  ranks, 
All  charged  with  rain  and  thunder. 

The  skiffs  of  fishers  sailing  by, 
To  the  shrill  blast  careening, 

The  dense  fog  'twixt  the  sea  and  sky, 
The  bay  shore  densely  screening. 

And  we,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  behold 
The  gathering  tempest's  warning, 

And  mark  the  west,  all  ribbed  with  gold, 
The  rock  above  still  scorning. 

"Behold,"  I  said,  "far  in  yon  west, 
That  shrouds  the  sun  in  glory, 

Defiant  of  the  tempest's  crest, 
The  reflex  of  our  story. 

"The  threatening  cloud,  the  flying  mist, 

Beyond  it  soars  unheeding; 
The  sun  and  ocean  will  have  kissed, 

Despite  its  angry  speeding. 
174 


&un  and  Cloud         175 


"And  so  our  love,  —  beyond  the  rim 

Of  storms  it  glows  forever; 
Nor  rolling  clouds  nor  fog-wreaths  dim 

The  sun  and  sea  may  sever. 

'  '  For  when  that  veil  the  west  line  hides, 
We  know  the  current  flowing 

Will  mingle  with  the  distant  tides 
In  yon  fair  sunset  glowing." 


THE   DEATH-LIST 

IF  in  the  morning  papers  should  appear 
My  name  within  the  list  of  those  departed, 

Would  Smith,  whose  weeds  I  smoke,  look  sad  and 

drear, 
Forbear  to  laugh  that  day,  nigh  broken-hearted  ? 

Would  other  customers,  beholding  him  — 

A  melancholy  monument  of  woe, 
His  tie  untied,  his  bright  eyes  red  and  dim, 

Spots  on  his  shirt,  and  mud-dabs  on  his  toe, 

Inquire,  "  Oh,  Smith,  what  ails  thee,  tearful  lad? 

Why  weepest  thou,  who  're  wont  to  be  so  gay  ? 
Let 's  shake  the  dice;  'tis  foolish  to  be  sad; 

Did  some  fair  damsel  flout  thee  yesterday?  " 

Would  Smith  reply,  the  while  he  shakes  his  head, 
And  on  his  cheek  a  big  tear  courses  down, 

"I'm  sad  because  Jestiferous  is  dead; 
He  bought  from  me  since  first  he  came  to  town"  ? 

Would  Smith  do  this?     I  do  not  think  he  would; 
I  think  he  would  not  curb  a  single  jest; 

176 


177 


He  'd  tie  his  tie,  he  'd  show  no  speck  of  mud; 
No  care  would  bide  in  his  dishonest  breast. 

If  in  the  morning  papers  Bob,  who  twists 
My  daily  toddies  into  pleasant  shapes,  — 

Bob  of  the  skillful  toss  and  dexterous  wrist, 
So  proud  withal  of  every  drink  he  makes,  — 

Should  see  my  death,  would  Robert  drop  a  tear 
Into  the  cocktail  ?     Would  his  master-punch 

Lack  lime  or  sugar  ?     Would  life  be  so  drear 
To  Robert  that  he  could  not  carve  the  lunch  ? 

For  soda  water  would  he  ope  champagne  ? 

Serve  gin  for  whisky,  and  Martell  for  rum  ? 
Make  juleps  with  a  face  of  keenest  pain, 

And  say,  '  '  Jestiferous  hath  made  me  glum  "  ? 

Faith,  I  think  not.     The  brigand  would  pursue 
His  grinning,  mixing,  deep,  concoctious  way; 

Passing  the  glasses  to  the  festive  crew, 

Without  one  thought  for  my  poor  drinkless  clay. 

And  as  the  hearse  passed  by,  and  o'er  the  stones 
Made  melancholy  rumble,  Bob  would  swear, 

The  while  his  nimble  fingers  shook  the  bones, 
He'd  shake  a  full  and  pulverize  two  pair. 


And  thou,  Mignon,  if,  when  the  evening  fell, 
No  lover's  footsteps  to  thy  bower  came, 

Thy  mat  unscraped,  unrung  thy  hall-door  bell, 
And  no  fond  voice  to  call  upon  thy  name, 

Wouldst  weep,  sweet  one,  and  wear  a  bit  of  rue 
Upon  thy  breast  for  that  true  lover  gone, 

And  for  one  week  look  sad,  or  even  blue, 

And  mourn  that  fate  had  left  thee  quite  alone? 

Faith,  I  think  not.     You  'd  find  another  beau; 

Eat  oysters  with  another,  gaily  mark 
The  bubbles  of  the  rich  wine's  amber  flow, 

In  those  dear  hours  when  dawn  dispels  the  dark. 

These  things  considered,  on  my  word,  I  think 
I  'd  better  for  the  present  shun  that  list, 

Smoke  and  make  love,  have  Robert  mix  my  drink, 
For  fear  that  when  I  die  I  sha'n't  be  missed. 


MY  FAVORITE   BOOK 

OF  all  books  in  my  library,  the  one  I  cherish  most 
Is  a  book  of  ringing  poems,  and  I  read  them 

o'er  and  o'er; 
They  sing  to  me  of  woodland,  they  whisper  of  the 

coast, 

When   I   watched   the  sounding  river  dash  its 
waters  on  the  shore. 

'  T  is  a  fly-book,  old  and  battered,  and  to  its  covers 

cling 
The  scales  of  good  fish  captured  in  riffle  and  in 

pool  ; 
And  when  I  part  those  covers,  the  birds  begin  to 

sing, 

And   the    south  wind   on   my    forehead  blows 
lovingly  and  cool, 

And  the  low  of  homing  cattle  is  borne  up  the  lea. 
How   the  murmur  of  the  river  is  musical,  yet 

strange, 

For  the  voice  of  running  water  has  ever  been  to  me 
A  monition  of  the  progress  of  that  mighty  law  of 
change, 

179 


180  $$V  JFabottte  Boofe 

Saying,  Come  into  the  woodland  while  thy  heart 

doth  still  retain 
Its  buoyancy  and  freshness,  and  breathe  these 

pleasant  airs; 
To  all  men  comes  that  moment  when  nothing  will 

remain 

Of  the  memory  of  the  past  time  but  its  worries 
and  its  cares. 

I  look  into  my  fly-book;  't  is  a  gallery  to  me 
Of  pictures  of  old  places,  old  streams,  old  bat 
tles,  when 
The  strong  fish  leaped  and  bounded  in  his  struggles 

to  be  free, 

And  I  fought  him  through  the  river,  past  the 
bridge  and  up  the  glen. 

Thus,  when  weary  of  the  city,  and  tired  of  other 

books, 

I  gaze  into  my  fly-book,  and  lo!  is  with  me  now 
The  voice  of  homing  cattle  and  the  murmur  of  the 

brooks, 

And  Mother  Nature's  greeting  is  pressed  upon 
my  brow. 


AFTER   DEATH 

I  WONDER,  love,  if  after  death 

You  and  I  shall  sit  together 

Talking  of  our  earthly  days, 

Of  the  pleasant  woodland  ways, 

Where  we  '  ve  walked,  in  soft  May  weather, 

Drinking  in  the  violet's  breath. 

I  wonder,  love,  if  after  death 
You  and  I  shall  still  remember 
Gusty  evenings  in  December, 
When  we  spoke  of  old-time  places, 
With  the  firelight  on  our  faces, 
And  the  wind  shrill  on  the  heath. 

Can  it  be  that  we  shall  meet, 
Knowing  God,  but  not  forgetting 
This  orb,  in  its  starry  setting, 
With  its  June  suns  and  its  sleet, 
After  death  ? 

Will  your  face,  love,  then  be  fairer; 
Will  your  voice  be  sweeter,  rarer; 

181 


182  after  SDeatlj 


Will  your  step  be  dearer,  lighter; 
Will  your  eyes  be  bluer,  brighter, 
After  death  ? 

Oh,  if  cold  should  be  our  meeting  — 
No  clasped  arms,  and  no  lips  greeting, 
Woe  no  human  tongue  could  utter, 
Dread  no  mortal  voice  could  mutter, 
Would  be  death. 


THE  CENCI 

THE  Cenci' s  face  I  'd  seen.    ...    A  moment  after 
In  a  dim  room  a  sweet  face  looked  at  me. 

An  artist's  room, —  an  hour  of  joy  and  laughter, 
Forgetting  care;  yet  'mid  the  gay  crowd's  glee, 

The  oval  face,  eyes  filled  with  mournful  longing, 
My  own  did  greet,  and  all  about  did  seem 

As  if  the  grief  to  Cenci'  s  soul  belonging 
Did  mirror  it,  as  in  a  shadowed  dream. 

Sometimes  I  think  the  souls  of  those  departed, 
The  souls  and  sorrows  of  the  lost  to  earth, 

In  other  forms,  all  buoyant  and  free-hearted, 
Asylum  find,  and  mark  another  birth. 

If  that  was  so,  those  eyes  so  brown  and  tender, 
That   mild,   sad  look,   that  calm  and  touching 

gloom, 
That   round,    sweet   face,    that    figure    lithe    and 

slender, 
Would  seem  to  me  the  Cenci' s  living  tomb. 

The  saddest  things  in  life  are  aye  the  sweetest; 
The  funeral  bells  exceed  the  wedding  chime; 

183 


184  <®bt  Cenci 


The  best  of  joys  are  those  that  are  the  fleetest; 
The  dullest  pleasures  those  which  challenge  time. 

O  haunting  eyes!  O  face  so  full  of  sorrow 

Of  some  grief  borrowed  from  the  mystic  past! 

May  fate  ordain  for  thee  each  bright  to-morrow, 
Nor  clouds  thy  maiden  pathway  overcast! 


THE   SOUTH   WIND 

SOUTH  WIND,  South  Wind,  hearken  to  the  flowers, 
Hearken  from  the  hillside,  hearken  from  the  plain: 

Whither   stray  the   cloudlets,   burdened  with  the 

showers, 
Lingering,  O  South  Wind,  with  the  laggard  rain? 

Are  the  summer  islands,  gemming  azure  waters, 
Blessed  with  thee,  O  South  Wind,  whispering  to 

the  palms? 

Murmuring  to  the  tropics'  red  and  purple  daughters, 
Drinking   in  their   breathings,   rich  in  Eastern 
balms  ? 

South  Wind,  South  Wind  —  mariner  and  maiden, 

Sailing  on  the  ocean,  waiting  by  the  strand, 
Woo  thee  from  thy  dwelling,  woo  thee  from  thy 

Aiden; 

Welcome  to  the  South  Wind  from  the  aching 
land. 

South  Wind,  South  Wind,  never  prayer  ascended 
From  the  weary  watchers  by  the  glassy  main, 

185 
M 


With   more   earnest   pleadings    than   the    longing 

blended 
Of  the  thirsty  herbage,  parching  on  the  plain. 

Hearken  to  his  sighing,  mourners  in  the  meadows; 

Group  the  swollen  cloudlets  o'er  the  arid  sky; 
Falls  upon  the  valley,  soothing,  welcome  shadows; 

Quivers  every  leaflet  —  for  the  rain  is  nigh. 


THE  DRAYMAN 

THE  Captain  that  walks  the  quarter-deck, 

Is  the  monarch  of  the  sea; 
But  every  day,  when  I  'm  on  my  dray, 

I '  m  as  big  a  monarch  as  he. 
For  the  car  must  slack  when  I '  m  on  the  track, 

And  the  gripman's  face  gets  blue, 
As  he  holds  her  back  till  his  muscles  crack, 

And  he  shouts,  "  Hey,  hey!    Say,  you! 
Get  out  of  the  way  with  that  dray ! "    "I  won' t ! 

' '  Get  out  of  the  way,  I  say ! ' ' 
But  I  stiffen  my  back,  and  I  stay  on  the  track, 

And  I  don' t  get  out  of  the  way. 

When  a  gaudy  carriage  bowls  along 

With  a  coachman  perched  on  high, 
Solemn  and  fat,  a  cockade  in  his  hat, 

Just  like  a  big  blue  fly, 
I  swing  my  leaders  across  the  road 

And  put  a  stop  to  his  jaunt, 
And  the  ladies  cry,  "John,  John,  drive  on!" 

And  I  laugh  when  he  says,  ' ( I  caun'  t. ' ' 
187 


SDrapman 


Oh,  life  to  me  is  a  big  picnic, 

From  the  rise  to  the  set  of  sun; 
The  swells  that  ride  in  their  fancy  drags 

Don't  begin  to  have  my  fun. 
I  'm  king  of  the  road,  though  I  wear  no  crown, 

As  I  leisurely  move  along, 
For  I  own  the  streets,  and  I  hold  them  down, 

And  I  love  to  hear  this  song: 
1  '  Get  out  of  the  way  with  your  dray  !  "    "I  won'  t  !" 

"  Get  out  of  the  way,  I  say!" 
But  I  stiffen  my  back,  and  I  stay  on  the  track, 

And  I  don'  t  get  out  of  the  way. 


MARKET-DAY 

SEE  Maggie  in  the  morning  spring  up  and  seize 

her  basket, 
While  Alice,  drowsy  Alice,  lies  prone  between 

the  sheets; 
But  Maggie,  rosy  Maggie,  the  household  queen, 

whose  task  it 
Is  to  go  to  market,  trips  along  the  silent  streets. 

Fair  goddess  of  the  dawning,  the  opening  buds,  the 

grasses, 
All  glistening  in  the  night  dews,  are  not  fresher 

than  her  face; 
The  birds,  but  half-awakened,   salute  her  as  she 

passes, 

The  tall  trees  bend  in  homage  to  her  beauty  and 
her  grace. 

As  she  moves  among  the  farmers,  they  know  well 

that  the  cherries 

Wear  no  hue  that  can  be  likened  to  the  ruby  of 
her  lips. 

189 


Mark  the  snowy  hand  that  picks  out  the  largest, 

ripest  berries, 

Staining   with    their   crimson  juices  her  dainty 
finger-tips. 

They  look  after  her  and  bless  her, — and  the  coin 

her  hands  have  clung  to 
Is  cherished  as  a  talisman  from  one  so  fair  and 

bright. 
Were  yon  rustic  but  a  Corydon,  he  surely  would 

have  sung  to 

This  Aurora  buying  butter  in  the  early  morning 
light. 

Were  I  thy  lover,  Maggie,  they  should  paint  thy 

picture,  dearest, — 
Not  dressed  in  gleaming  satin,  the  splendor  of  the 

feast, 
But  arrayed  in  market  costume,  the  same  plain  dress 

thou  wearest, 

With  thy  pouting  lips  preparing  yon  golden  roll 
to  taste. 


THE   LOVING-CUP 

I  FOUND  in  an  attic  closet,  by  hands  long  vanished 
placed, 

A  goblet  dinted  and  olden,  with  antique  figures 
chased. 

With  reverential  fingers  I  lifted  the  relic  up, 

For  two  hundred  years  had  faded  since  was  fash 
ioned  that  Loving-Cup. 

With  fragrant  and  rich  Burgundy  I  filled  it  to  the 

brim, 
And  as   I  gazed  upon  it,   in  the  twilight  somber 

and  dim, 
The  bells  from  the  distant  steeple  rang  faint  o'er 

moor  and  fen 
Their    joyous    Christmas    greeting,    ' '  Peace   and 

good  will  to  men/' 

While    looking    into    the    goblet,    pale    shadows 

thronged  the  room  — 
Shadows  of  men  and  women  moved  through  the 

gathering  gloom; 

191 


192  W&t  Eobm^Cup 

And  I  knew  by  the  flowing  love-lock,  as  one  of  the 

shades  drew  near, 
That  the  phantom  my  fancy  conjured  was  a  stately 

cavalier. 

Lofty   and   free  his   bearing,    gallant   and  full  of 

grace, 
And  rich  were  the  chestnut  curls  that  framed  his 

warrior  face. 
"My  faith,  but  the  gods  are  gracious!"  he  cried, 

as  he  marked  the  wine. 
11  Come  hither,  Dorothy,  pledge  me;  come  hither, 

sweetheart  of  mine.' ' 

Then  by  his  side   a   woman   in   riding-habit  and 

hood, 
With  a  face  like  a  rosebud  glowing,  and  eyes  like 

the  bright  stars,  stood; 
There  was  love  in  the  glance  uplifted  to  his  tender, 

passionate  gaze, 
And  I  felt  I  was  reading  a  chapter  from  a  romance 

of  old  days. 

One  hand  the  cup  encircles,   one  arm  her  waist 

entwines, 
He  like  the  oak  of  the  forest,  she  like  its  clinging 

vines. 


£0irinff=Cup  193 


"  One  draught  we'll  drink  to  King  Charles;  may 
Satan  his  foes  confound, 

And  may  every  Roundhead  rascal  rot  on  the  battle 
ground  ! 

' '  Good  fortune  bid  me,  sweetheart,  for  the  hawk 

approacheth  the  lure, 
And  soon  shall  grim  Cromwell's  soldiers  perish  on 

Marston  Moor." 
Her  red  lips  kiss  the  goblet,  and  he  kisses  the  red 

wine's  stains, 
And  close  to  his  bosom  pressed  her,  as  the  Loving- 

Cup  he  drains. 

(<  And  now,  farewell  to  thee,  darling;  my  steed  waits 

at  the  door. 
Ho!    for   the    good    King   Charles,    and   ho!    for 

Marston   Moor! 
May  the  Lord  in  heaven  protect  thee,  my  love, 

from  sorrow  and  pain, 
Till   our   hands   may   clasp,    my    sweetheart,  this 

Loving-Cup  again." 

When  I  raised  the  antique  goblet  those  phantom 

lips  had  kissed, 
Stole  through  the  open  portal  a  strange,  unearthly 

mist, 

OF 


194 


And  then,   like  a  curtain  parted,   and  before  my 

eyes  unveiled, 
Lay  under  the  glinting  moonbeams  a  corpse-strewn 

battle-field. 

And  there,  where  the  slain  were  thickest,  like  leaves 

in  the  autumn  sere, 
His   love-locks    tangled   and   gory,   lay  a  gallant 

cavalier. 
I  knew  the  pallid  features,  though  disfigured  by 

blood  and  pain, 
And   I   knew   the   hand   should   never   clasp   the 

Loving-Cup  again. 


'A   LITTLE   HUT   UPON   THE   BEACH' 

A  LITTLE  hut  upon  the  beach, 

A  view  of  rock  and  billow, 
There  all  day  long  to  lie  and  dream, 

The  white  sands  for  our  pillow. 

To  watch  the  ships  sail  in  and  out, 

The  gulls  above  us  veering, 
And  far  out  in  the  distant  west 

The  great  sun  disappearing. 

This  were  enjoyment.     Naught  should  come 

To  mar  our  sweet  seclusion. 
The  echoes  of  the  city's  hum, 

Its  conflict  and  confusion, 

Would  faintly  reach  our  weary  ears, 

And  from  the  harsh  commotion 
We'd  turn  to  list  with  awe  and  praise 

The  great  voice  of  the  ocean. 

We'd  find  a  dear  companionship 

In  every  cliff;  we  'd  wander 
By  dizzy  paths,  on  herb  and  flower 

And  drifting  weed  to  ponder. 
195 


196    "&  EittU  ^ut  upon  t&e  25eac&" 

When  at  our  feet  lay  spars  of  ships, 

The  wounded  in  the  battle, 
Where  fierce  gales  blew,  we  '  d  hear  again 

The  tempests  shriek,  the  rattle 

Of  flapping  rope  and  groaning  mast, 
And  see  the  good  ship  driven 

Before  the  demons  of  the  blast, 
Loosed  from  the  scowling  heaven. 

Again,  some  branch  of  stranger  tree, 

From  coral  birthplace  torn, 
Would  bring  back,  friend,  to  you  and  me 

A  glimpse  of  life's  fair  morn, 

When  in  those  summer  isles  we  roved, 
And  watched  their  fearless  daughters, 

Brown,  lovely  eyes,  like  Lorelei, 
Sport  in  their  purple  waters. 


WERE   I   TO   DIE  TO-NIGHT 

WERE  I  to  die  to-night, 

Would  the  memory  of  the  years, 
With  their  blossoms  and  their  blight, 

With  their  sunshine  and  their  tears, 
Follow  me  beyond  the  grave, 
Were  I  to  die  to-night? 

Ah,  should  I  die  to-night, 
Would  the  rose  which  once  she  gave 
Be  placed  upon  my  grave  — 
Dead  and  lifeless  as  the  clay 
Which  beneath  its  petals  lay — 
Would  it  move  the  dust  beneath 
With  the  fragrance  of  its  breath? 

Were  I  to  die  to-night, 
Would  my  friends  about  my  bed 
Lay  kind  hands  upon  my  head, 
And  from  hearts,  with  sorrow  rife, 
Say  in  weeping  accents  thus: 
"He  was  all  in  all  to  us; 
May  his  long  sleep  be  in  peace!" 
197 


198         flfllm  3  to  2Die 


Were  I  to  die  to-night, 
Would  woman's  eye  be  wet; 
Would  any  say:  "Adieu, 
Friend,  warm-hearted,  true! 
Poor  clay!  so  cold  and  still, 
Void  of  sense  and  soul  and  will, 
Ere  the  worm  thy  essence  sips, 
Here  's  one  kiss  upon  thy  lips  — 
Pallid  lips  with  death's  seal  set, 
Be  thy  cheeks  with  our  tears  wet: 
We  shall  mourn  and  not  forget; 
Peace  be  with  thee,  silent  dead!" 

Ah,  were  I  sure  of  this  — 
Sure  of  woman's  tender  kiss, 
Sure  of  friendship's  sorrowing  hand 
On  my  brow  in  kind  embrace, 
On  my  cold,  impassive  face  — 
I  could  die  in  peace  to-night. 


THE   DIFFERENCE 

SING  you  a  song  of  love?     Ah,  no! 

Those  days  are  gone  forever; 
The  bonds  you  severed  years  ago 

May  be  united  never. 

You  press  my  hand,  and  your  sweet  eyes 

Revive  the  ancient  passion 
Of  hours  when  you,  love,  were  the  prize, 

And  courting  was  in  fashion. 

But  courting  now  is  dead  and  stale, 
Gone  kiss  and  fond  pursuing; 

The  mamma  tells  the  tender  tale, 
The  papa  does  the  wooing. 

I  pluck  a  rose  from  yonder  bush, — 

Its  touch  recalls  one  even, 
When  you  in  the  soft  twilight's  hush 

A  foretaste  gave  of  heaven. 

You  've  married  well;  I  am  not  mad, 
Your  husband  is  not  jealous; 

And  when  you  think  I '  m  very  sad, 
I '  m  only  very  bilious. 

199 


200  <Hty  SDiffmnce 


Your  husband  is  my  bosom  friend,  — 
I  lost,  he  was  the  winner,  — 

I  never  now  regret  the  end 
When  we  sit  down  to  dinner. 

I  never  now  regret  the  pain 

Of  all  that  sweet  flirtation. 
The  port  is  good,  the  dry  champagne 

Is  ample  consolation. 

Sing  you  a  song  of  love?     Ah,  no! 

We  've  slain  the  babe  of  Venus. 
But  Heaven  !  how  quick  a  turkey  goes 

When  placed,  old  friend,  between  us. 


ON   THE   BRINK 

"  LET  us  go,"  she  said,  "  no  further," 

And  I  saw  her  backward  shrink; 
Beneath  us  flows  the  river, 

We  are  standing  on  the  brink. 
When  we  lip  the  glowing  goblet 

Do  we  hesitate  to  think, 
Or  dream  when  drunk  with  pleasure 

That  our  feet  have  passed  the  brink  ? 

"  Look,"  she  said,  "  into  the  darkness, - 

See  you  nothing  there  below  ?  " 
I  saw  nothing  but  the  willows, 

Waving  sadly  to  and  fro. 
But  beneath  her  long  dark  lashes 

Something  lay  which  made  me  think; 
Perhaps  she  does  remember 

We  are  standing  on  the  brink. 

The  word  remained  unspoken, 
The  glowing  thought  unframed, 

For  'twas  better,  oh!  far  better, 
That  her  love  should  be  unclaimed, 


N 


202  flDn  t&e  IBrinfe 

Than  cherished  dreams  should  wither, 
Frail  hopes  perish  link  by  link, 

And  the  soul  with  sorrow  wounded, 
Wish  it  never  passed  the  brink. 

If  ever  in  the  future 

You  recall  that  glorious  night, 
With  its  dance  and  song  and  music, 

Its  soft  and  sensuous  light, 
Oh,  remember,  too,  the  river! 

But  I  would  not  have  you  think 
Throb  answered  not  to  heart-throb, 

Though  I  dared  not  cross  the  brink. 

Could  I  tell  you  that  I  loved  you, 

When  I  feared  the  cold  reply  ? 
Could  I  speak  of  my  devotion, 

When  a  dearer  one  was  nigh? 
And  with  pain  I  checked  the  torrent, 

And  forebore  the  draught  to  drink, 
Though  sadly,  sorely  tempted, 

When  standing  on  the  brink. 


SONG  OF  THE  FIELDS 

How  often  in  my  city  den, 
When  wearied  o'er  my  books, 

I  close  my  eyes  and  float  away 
To  pleasant  forest  nooks. 

I  mark  along  the  cafion-side 

The  hues  of  varied  green, 
And  gleaming,  like  a  copper  staff, 

Madrono's  trunk  between. 

I  lie  beside  the  noisy  brook, 

Amid  the  pungent  fern; 
I  read  with  rapture  Nature's  book, 

And  prayerfully  discern 

The  great,  grand  page  —  so  new,  yet  old, 
So  vast,  so  clear,  so  broad  — 

Where  every  joyous  season  writes 
The  poetry  of  God. 

No  martial  rhymes  of  clanging  war, 

No  rancorous  strife  of  men, 
But  songs  of  peace  and  rest  and  love 

Flow  from  that  mighty  pen. 
203 


204  &OHQ;  ot 


Some  sweet-voiced  bird  the  strain  begins 

With  proud,  ambitious  trill; 
The  song  of  God  the  trees  take  up, 

And  breathe  it  to  the  rill. 

It  sweeps  along  the  rustling  grain 

In  tender  melody; 
And  now  the  pines  bend  whispering  down 

And  voice  it  to  the  sea. 

O  song  of  songs!  how  weak,  how  tame, 
Compared,  sounds  mortal  rhyme! 

Thy  fame  is  for  the  centuries, 
Thou  conqueror  of  time. 


THE   BUSINESS  OF  THE   FUTURE 

PAW,  give  baby  Jack  his  pillow  — 

Hang  it  o'er  his  little  cot; 
Let  him  punch  it  all  the  morning, 

Let  his  blows  be  quick  and  hot; 

For  our  little  four-year  Johnny, 
Sucking  now  his  silver  mug, — 

Golden  hair  and  eyes  of  azure, — 
Shall  grow  up  a  lightning  "pug." 

Great  shall  be  our  little  Johnny, 
Not  with  learning  of  the  schools, 

Not  with  tedious  Greek  and  Latin, 
Tiresome  books  and  musty  rules. 

Sullivan  shall  be  his  Homer, 

Jackson  his  Herodotus, 
Charley  Mitchell  his  Macaulay, 

Dempsey  his  Theocritus. 

Never  shall  our  little  Johnny 

Be  permitted  to  peruse 
All  the  reckless,  vicious  nonsense 

Of  that  idiot,  Mother  Goose; 
205 


ot  tfjt  jfuture 


But  when  Johnny  knows  his  letters, 

And  his  tender  mind  is  set, 
From  his  little  bank  he  '11  purchase 

Mr.  Fox's  live  Gazette. 

Paw,  remove  that  silly  rattle, 
Throw  away  that  woolly  dog; 

Johnny,  love,  go  punch  your  pillow, 
Lead  and  dodge,  and  jab  and  slog. 

That  's  a  darling!     Now,  the  right,  love! 

Counter  now  —  again  —  well  done! 
Paw,  how  blest  are  we  in  having 

Such  a  darling,  clever  son! 

Lizzie,  pet,  draw  near  your  brother,  — 

Never  mind  his  little  blows; 
Put  your  props  up,  gentle  Lizzie; 

Let  him  punch  you  in  the  nose. 

For  when  Johnny  grows  up,  darling, 
And  his  name  rings  through  the  land, 

You  '11  be  proud  to  feel  that  nose  once 
Felt  the  weight  of  Johnny's  hand. 

Paw  and  I  will  sell  the  farm, 
Just  for  what  the  place  will  bring; 


of  t&e  jfutute      207 


With  the  money  we  '11  hire  talent 
To  train  Johnny  for  the  ring. 

Not  for  law,  or  art,  or  physic, 
Not  to  preach  or  scribble  rhyme; 

For  the  business  of  the  future 
Is  the  slogger's,  all  the  time. 


THE   ROSE   AND   THE   NIGHTINGALE 

"  THROUGH  all  the  night  long," 

Said  the  rose, 
"  Have  I  listened  to  your  song," 

Said  the  rose, 

' '  Till  the  stars  above  us  shining 
Have  grown  dim  with  your  repining, 
And  the  murmur  of  the  river 
Seems  to  echo  your  '  forever, ' ' ' 

Said  the  rose; 
"  But  I  can  love  you  never," 

Said  the  rose. 

"Ah!  fair,  but  cruel  flower," 

Said  the  bird, 
1 '  No  more  I '  11  seek  your  bower, ' ' 

Said  the  bird; 

' '  Let  the  cool  stream  by  us  flowing, 
And  the  trees  around  us  growing, 
Hear  my  last  song,  as  a  token 
Of  a  vow  to  be  unbroken," 

Said  the  bird; 
"  Of  a  love  to  be  unspoken," 

Said  the  bird. 
208 


1Ro0e  and  t&e  jRirttinffale     209 


"  When  you  sing,  my  petals  close, 

Said  the  rose, 
"  For  you  trouble  my  repose," 

Said  the  rose; 

"  But  when  your  song  is  hushed, 
And  the  eastern  sky  is  flushed 
With  the  coming  of  the  day, 
And  you  are  far  away,  '  ' 

Said  the  rose, 
"  Then  again  my  heart  is  gay," 

Said  the  rose. 

"  When  my  song  has  died  away," 

Said  the  bird, 
"  In  the  garish  light  of  day," 

Said  the  bird, 

1  '  Then  your  petals  open  wide, 
For  I  am  not  at  your  side; 
But  the  wild  bee  comes  and  dwells 
Deep  amid  your  honeyed  cells," 

Said  the  bird, 
"  In  my  darling's  honeyed  cells," 

Said  the  bird. 

"  But  the  twilight,  soft  and  calm," 
Said  the  bird, 


210     <JtJe  l&oge  anb  t&e 


"With  its  zephyrs  breathing  balm," 

Said  the  bird, 
"  Will  never  bring  again 
Your  lover's  song  of  pain, 
For  this  very  hour  we  part; 
I  will  seek  some  warmer  heart," 

Said  the  bird, 
"  But  beware  the  wild  bee's  dart," 

Said  the  bird. 


» 

L> 


1  *  For  a  moment  stay  your  heart, 

Said  the  rose, 
41  Linger  just  this  single  night," 

Said  the  rose; 

"Ah!  forgive  my  foolish  pride; 
Stay  forever  by  my  side; 
In  my  petals  you  shall  lie, 
And  shall  kiss  me  till  I  die," 

Said  the  rose, 
"  And  the  bee  shall  ne'er  come  nigh,; 

Said  the  rose. 


BAL-MASQUE 

IN  Paris  —  't  was  almost  a  year  ago, 

At  a  bal-masque,  in  the  carnival  time. 
I  wore  the  motley;  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  reckless  crowd,  like  some  ancient  rhyme 
Of  folly  and  mirth,  which  had  power,  they  say, 

To  win  men's  hearts  from  the  present,  and  be 
Of  the  morrow  careless,  with  naught  to  stay 

The  current  of  riotous,  reckless  glee, 

So  filled  me,  and  thrilled  me,  that,  reckless  of  all, 

I  danced  and  sang,  and  my  song  was  loud. 
But  one  there  was  in  that  brilliant  hall — 

One  sweet  girl-face  in  that  garish  crowd — 
One  low,  soft  voice  that  drew  me  apart 

From  the  rush  and  revel,  by  her  to  stand ; 
And  the  longing  that  filled  my  throbbing  heart 

When  she  smiled  on  me,  and  I  took  her  hand, 

Was  a  dream  and  a  story.     I  know  not  how, 
But  I  know  —  oh,  darling,  so  kind  and  fair  — 

You,  with  the  stars  on  your  low,  sweet  brow 

Of  the  Queen  of  Night,  and  your  rich,  dark  hair 


212 


With  rare  pearls  glistening — and  I,  the  clown, 
In  motley  decked,  bells,  wand,  and  cap, 

Were  together  drawn;  and  I  there  laid  down 
My  heart,  O  love,  in  your  silken  lap! 

A  rush  and  a  tumult,  a  curse  and  a  blow, 

In  the  light  of  the  morning,  dim  and  gray, 
I  am  hurried  over  the  shining  snow 

To  avenge  an  insult,  my  comrades  say. 
No  time  have  we  at  honor's  call 

To  deck  ourselves  for  this  grim  parade; 
We  wear  the  costumes  we  wore  at  the  ball, 

And  each  takes  from  his  second  a  gleaming  blade. 

What  is  it  all  about?     God  knows! 

I  only  remember  a  smile  and  a  kiss, 
And  a  soft  hand's  pressure,  the  gift  of  a  rose, 

A  curse,  a  scuffle,  the  insult,  and  this. 
In  Paris,  't  was  almost  a  year  ago, 

When  face  to  face  with  my  rival  I  stood, 
And  thrust,  and  marked  on  the  virgin  snow 

The  crimson  tints  of  his  heart's  best  blood. 


LEGEND   OF   THE   HAZEL 

THE  angel  of  the  Lord  to  Joseph  said,  "Fly  thither! 
Take  the  mother  and  the  infant,  and  into  Egypt 

fly; 
For  cruel   Herod  has  decreed  that  Jesus  perish, 

whether 

Every  child  in  Israel  at  his  stern  command  should 
die." 

Then  the  Virgin  took  the  infant,  the  sweet  child 

newly  born, 
And  crossed  the  trackless  desert;  and  then  the 

Virgin  said, 
'  *  Let  us  linger  in  this  hazel  grove,  and  there  rest 

till  the  morn; 

For  if  we  travel  farther,  child  and  mother  shall 
be  dead." 

Out  from  the  frowning  heavens,  leaped  the  flash 
ing  thunder, 

And  the  sand  waves  of  the  desert  in  mighty  bil 
lows  rolled, 

213 


214  Eegenti  ot  t&e 


And  they  knelt  to  God  the  Father,  and  they  prayed, 

as  crouching  under 

The  hazel-boughs,   they  shivered  in  the  bitter, 
cruel  cold. 

Above  them  and  around  them,  the  fiery  bolts  were 

dashing, 
And   the   hazel's   slender   branches  over  Jesus 

kindly  spread, 
And  they  feared  not  the  anger  of  that  mighty  tem 

pest  crashing, 

And  that  night  God  blessed  the  hazel  that  had 
sheltered  Jesus'  head. 

Now,  since  that  fateful  moment,   no  thunderbolts 

may  harm 
The  traveler  who  shelter  seeks  beneath  the  hazel- 

tree, 
For  God  the  Father  blessed  it,  each  leaf  and  branch 

ing  arm 

That   guarded   child   and   mother,    through   all 
eternity. 


MARY'S    CAT 

THE  tall  magnolia-tree  outside  her  lattice 

Its  heavy  perfume  flung; 
I  said:  "  I  wonder  where  that  yellow  cat  is, — 

That  cat  with  silvery  tongue  ?  ' ' 

I  moved  with  caution  o'er  the  shining  gravel; 

I  looked  above  to  see 
My  Mary,  after  weeks  of  weary  travel 

Across  the  raging  sea. 

Now,  Mary's  cat,  the  household  pet,  the  daisy, 

Was  ever  at  her  side; 
Where  Mary  is,  the  cat  is,  sleek  and  lazy, 

The  cat  with  yellow  hide. 

I  softly  tapped,  no  steps  came  to  the  portal; 

I  pushed  the  door  — 
All  silent  still;  with  anxious,  timid  footfall 

I  crossed  the  floor. 

Ah!  she  was  there  —  my  Mary,  fair  and  blushing! 

Her  lips  I  kissed, 
And  all  her  anxious  questions  gently  hushing, 

Her  hand  I  pressed. 

215 


216  9£atp'g  Cat 


But  as  she  rested  on  my  loving  arm 

Her  dainty  head, 
I  noticed  with  a  feeling  of  alarm 

A  hair  of  red. 

A  long,  long  hair,  a  coarse-grained  hair,  a  twister! 

11  Whose  hair  is  that? 
It  is  a  flotsam  from  a  man's  red  whisker!  " 

"It  is  the  cat." 

"  No,  Mary,  no;  you  can  not  thus  deceive  me, — 

Ah,  woe  is  mine! 
That  long  hair  never  grew,  false  maid,  believe  me, 

On  hide  feline." 

"It  did."    "  It  did  n't."    And  in  wrath  we  parted. 

At  the  mat 
I  paused  a  second,  sobbing,  broken-hearted, 

To  kick  the  cat. 


IS    LIFE  WORTH   LIVING? 

Is  LIFE  worth  living  ?     Faith,  I  hardly  know. 

Sometimes  I  think  it  is,  and  sometimes  nay. 
When  the  to-morrows  throng  upon  my  soul 

I  turn  for  refuge  to  the  yesterday, — 

Because  within  the  golden  past  I  find 
Some  spar  to  cling  to  in  this  ebbing  sea; 

Something  to  give  me  more  of  tranquil  mind, 
Some  little  change  from  human  misery. 

Is  life  worth  living  ?     O  the  foaming  wine 
We  drank  upon  the  threshold  of  the  years! 

0  how  it  thrilled  us,  and  how  faint  the  line 
On  the  horizon's  verge  of  future  tears! 

Sometimes  I  deem  that  could  I  once  again 
Feel  but  the  burning  thrill  of  love's  first  kiss, 

1  'd  give  a  whole  eternity  of  pain 

For  that  past  joy—  that  ancient  perished  bliss. 

O,  I  remember  when  my  life  was  young 
How  joyously  the  merry  seasons  rolled, 

The  lips  that  thrilled,  the  melodies  we  sung, 

Ere  hands  grew  palsied  and  ere  hearts  grew  cold. 

217 


218         30  Jiitt  flfllottl) 


Could  I  within  my  yearning  arms  enfold 
The  woman  that  I  loved  in  years  gone  by, 

Methinks  that  then  I  never  should  grow  cold, 
And  life's  long  dirge  be  changed  to  lullaby. 

Is  life  worth  living?     Ah!  when  I  turn  back, 
And  view  the  weary  road  that  I  have  trod, 

And  miss  the  many  faces  from  the  track, 

Who  from  those  dim  days  have  been  drawn  to 
God, 

I  truly  fear  that  I  am  weary  too  ; 

That  I,  too,  fain  would  rest  where  they  have  lain, 
And  steal  away  to  join  the  good  and  true, 

And  bid  good-by  to  worriment  and  pain; 

Still  hoping,  when  the  kindly  breezes  blow 
Above  my  grave  in  some  sea-bordered  grove, 

The  thoughts  of  those  I  cherished  long  ago, 

Would  mingle  with  the  winds  that  swept  above. 


THE   RIVER'S   TEACHINGS 

WHAT  whispers  the  pine  to  the  river  ? 

What  murmurs  the  stream  to  the  tree  ? 
As  its  torrents  flow  onward  and  ever 

To  its  home  in  the  clamorous  sea  ? 
Does  it  tell  of  the  past,  when  its  margin 

Was  lined  with  the  cabins  of  those 
Who  sought  for  the  glittering  treasure 

That  sleeps  where  the  broad  current  flows  ? 

It  springs  from  its  crags  to  long  reaches, 

In  thunder,  and  bubble,  and  spray; 
It  glides  by  its  smooth,  pebbly  beaches 

In  the  sheen  of  the  soft  summer  day; 
It  boils  through  rough  granite  crevasses, 

Now  is  still  as  a  smooth  lake,  and  then 
From  the  day  and  the  sun  swiftly  passes 

To  the  gloom  of  the  pine-shadowed  glen. 

Ah!  this  is  the  marvelous  story 

The  branches  bend  downward  to  hear: 

"In  the  type  of  man's  sadness  and  glory, 
His  triumph,  rejoicing,  and  fear; 

219 


220          <Q[%t  IBUfcet'g 


Not  ever  the  sunlight,  not  ever 

The  smooth  pebbles  glisten  and  gleam,  — 
There  '  s  labor  and  wrath  in  the  river, 

Solemn  deeps  and  rude  crags  in  the  stream. 

"  I  flow  on  in  musical  measure, 

And  the  wild  bird  chimes  in  with  my  strain; 
'Neath  my  bed  lies  a  glittering  treasure, 

Man's  agent  for  pleasure  or  pain. 
I  guard  it  with  jealous  resistance; 

Those  who  trouble  my  waters  for  gain, 
Shall  find  their  disturbing  insistence, 

Their  delving  and  toiling  in  vain. 

"But  to  him  whom  my  rugged  bank  wanders 

Not  for  gold,  but  from  life's  cares  surcease, 
Steals  into  his  soul  as  he  ponders, 

A  lesson  of  loving  and  peace: 
To  cherish  the  sun,  and  not  borrow 

The  silence  and  gloom  of  the  glen, 
To  know  a  life  mingled  with  sorrow 

In  the  heritage  given  to  men." 


FIFTY  YEARS   AGO 

THERE  stood  before  a  big  bazaar 

A  mother  and  her  boy; 
Its  windows  were  completely  filled 

With  every  kind  of  toy — 
With  toys  that  danced,  and  toys  that  sang, 

A  perfect  feast  of  joy. 

Grave  bishops  nodded  from  the  shelves, 

In  somber  raiment  clad, 
From  ferny  grooves  peered  little  elves, 

And  windmills  spun  like  mad; 
In  fine,  the  shop  held  everything 

To  make  young  children  glad. 

' '  What  will  you  buy,  my  little  son  ? 

Here  is  a  good  gray  steed, 
A  gallant  charger  which  might  well 

Assist  in  knightly  deed, 
Or  on  the  green  turf  win  the  race 

With  most  excelling  speed. 


222  jftttp  Stattf  #0:0 

"  Here  is  a  farmer,  scythe  in  hand, 

Prepared  to  mow  his  wheat, 
And  in  this  cage  a  little  bird, 

And  here  a  church  and  street.' ' 
' '  I  want  the  book  about  the  ships 

That  sunk  the  Spanish  fleet. 

"  You  know  the  story  that  you  told, 

And  grandpa  told  again, 
How  over  fifty  years  ago, 

The  battle- cruiser  Maine 
Was  blown  up  in  the  dead  of  night 

By  the  wicked  men  of  Spain. 

"  And  how  we  sent  out  other  ships 

To  punish  them,  and  then 
How  gallant  Dewey  swept  their  fleet 

From  all  the  southern  main; 
And  how  Cervera's  sailors  died 

Beneath  the  iron  rain. 

'  *  For  that '  s  what  grandpa  called  the  shot 
From  Sampson  and  from  Schley; 

He  said  it  was  an  awful  thing 
To  see  those  sailors  die. 

If  we  'd  been  old,  might  we  have  gone, 
My  brother  Bob  and  I  ?" 


jfittp  geatg  ago  223 

The  mother  stooped  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And  said,  "  Would  you  have  gone 

To  fight  those  awful  men,  and  left 
Poor  mamma  all  alone  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  mamma,  we'd  have  to  go 
And  do  as  grandpa  done. 

"  Is  it  not  right  that  all  brave  men 
When  they  are  called,  should  go  ? 

And  take  the  sword,  and  take  the  gun, 
And  rush  to  meet  the  foe  ? 

Those  are  the  words  that  grandpa  said; 
They  must  be  true,  you  know. 

"  Did  he  not  say  that  uncle's  name, 

Who  in  the  battle  died, 
Should  be  placed  in  the  roll  of  fame, 

Great  heroes'  names  beside  ? 
And  we  who  bear  that  name  can  now 

Remember  it  with  pride." 

Thus  shall  the  tales  of  heroes'  deeds, 

For  flag  and  country  done. 
Along  the  generations'  line, 

Be  proudly  handed  down, 
Until  the  earth  has  passed  away, 

And  God  withdrawn  the  sun. 


JUST   AS   OF   OLD 

OLD  GLORY  waves  again, 

Just  as  of  old. 
O'er  deck  and  battle-plain, 

Just  as  of  old. 

Once  more  the  fife  and  drum 
Summon  the  hosts  to  come 
From  ocean-side,  vale,  and  town, 

Just  as  of  old. 

The  ploughshare  is  cast  aside, 

Just  as  of  old. 
The  bridegroom  has  left  the  bride, 

Just  as  of  old. 

The  mother  has  sent  her  son 
Where  the  grim  work  is  done; 
Battles  are  lost  and  won, 

Just  as  of  old. 

Muster  the  soldiers  now, 

Just  as  of  old. 
Hope  high  on  every  brow, 

Just  as  of  old. 

224 


225 


Many  a  gallant  breast, 
On  rampart  and  mountain  crest, 
Shall  find  eternal  rest, 
Just  as  of  old. 

Some  shall  win  valor's  crown, 

Just  as  of  old. 
Some  their  young  lives  lay  down, 

Just  as  of  old. 
Many  a  vacant  chair 
Shall  the  sad  truth  declare, 
How  dear  the  price  of  war, 

Just  as  of  old. 

When  the  sad  list  is  read, 

Just  as  of  old,  — 
Names  of  the  soldier  dead, 

Just  as  of  old,  — 
Many  a  heart  must  break, 
For  the  loved  heroes'  sake, 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Just  as  of  old. 

Not  against  brother's  life, 

Just  as  of  old, 
Wage  we  this  bloody  strife, 

As  once  of  old. 


a*  ot 


Vermont  and  Tennessee 
In  pure  fraternity 
Battle  on  land  and  sea, 
Just  as  of  old. 

And  when  the  trumpet-blast 
Sounds  the  recall, 

And  when  the  sheathe'd  sword 
Hangs  on  the  wall, 

Ask  what  the  gain  shall  be: 

Once  more  a  people  free, 

For  liberty,  victory, 
Just  as  of  old. 


THE  EXILE'S  MUSINGS 

WHEN  the  night  stars  glimmer,  and  the  sun  is 
sinking 

To  his  bed  of  crimson  in  the  waveless  sea, 
I  find  myself  still  sadly  thinking, 

With  heavy  bosom,  my  land,  of  thee. 
Though  the  vine  above  me  be  richly  twining, 

And  the  jasmine  perfumes  the  evening  air, 
I  say:  My  heart!  cease  this  fond  repining 

To  leave  these  shores  for  a  land  less  fair. 
Does  that  sun  you  long  for,  in  noontide  glowing, 

Gild  the  drooping  ear  of  the  golden  grain, 
With  a  full,  rich  light  to  the  glad  eye  showing 

How  blest  by  God  is  that  happy  plain, 
Where  plenty  dwells,  and  a  banner  streaming 

Floats  proudly  over  a  nation  free  ? 
Then,  foolish  heart,  why  art  thou  dreaming 

Of  a  land  of  slaves  beyond  the  sea  ? 

Has  that  land  of  woe  flung  a  spell  around  you, 

Unbroken  ever  by  joy  or  pain, 
And  to  her  shores  forever  bound  you 

In  a  bond  of  love,  with  a  magic  chain  ? 

227 


228 


That  though  smiling  fields  and  unending  summer 
Surround  your  dwelling  in  the  home  of  the  free, 

You  coldly  turn,  with  a  sad  glance,  from  her, 
And  murmur,  "  Ireland,  my  heart's  with  thee." 

Have  those  mystic  legends,  by  mothers  chanted 

To  their  sleeping  babes  in  that  shrouded  land,  — 
Have  those  somber  lakes,  by  old  chieftains  haunted, 

Woven  around  you  some  fairy  band? 
That  when  laugh  is  loudest,  and  wine  is  streaming 

From  the  goblet,  grasped  in  the  exile's  hand, 
With   hot   cheek    flushed,    and   with    proud   eye 
gleaming, 

You  drink  to  Ireland,  our  native  land? 


WHICH? 

HERE'S  luck,  my  friend!  fill  up  again; 

A  few  years  hence  which  will  it  be  ? 
Shall  you  go  on  to  toast  and  drain, 

While  the  Dark  Angel  claimeth  me? 

Or  will  I,  standing  here  as  now, 

Remembering  all  we  '  ve  done  and  said, 

With  moistened  eye  and  saddened  brow, 
Drink  to  the  dear  beloved  dead? 

It  must  be  one  of  us,  it  must, — 
The  hours  are  fleeting  sure  and  fast; 

The  dark  grave  yearneth  for  our  dust, 
The  best  of  life  for  us  is  past. 

One  of  us  must  mourn  beside 

The  coffined  form  of  his  dead  friend; 

One  of  us  mark  the  ebbing  tide, 
The  dying  throb  that  tells  the  end. 

One  of  us  lay  with  reverent  hand 
The  wreath  upon  the  pulseless  breast, 

One  of  us  by  the  other  stand 

The  while  the  dead  is  laid  to  rest. 
229 


230 


One  of  us  muse  in  dreary  days 
On  all  we  twain  have  lost  and  won, 

And  looking  forth  to  lonesome  ways, 
Wish  that,  like  him,  our  task  was  done. 

One  of  us  —  Pshaw!  fill  up  and  drink; 

Who  cares  for  coffin,  shroud,  and  pall  ? 
The  man's  a  fool  who  '11  mope  and  think, 

And  mourn  the  fate  that 's  meant  for  all. 

We  've  had  our  share  of  wine  and  bliss; 

Bright  eyes  and  rosy  lips  we've  had; 
We  've  never  missed  a  chance  to  kiss, 

Never  a  moment  to  make  glad. 

To-night  we  '11  dine,  and  drink  and  sing, 
And  massive  beakers  blithely  pour, 

And  grave  thoughts  to  the  wild  winds  fling, 
And  drink,  and  kiss,  and  drink  once  more. 


THE   CHAMBER   OF   SLEEP 

I    HAVE   a   Castle  of  Silence,   flanked  by  a  lofty 

keep, 
And  across  the  drawbridge  lieth  the  lovely  chamber 

of  sleep; 
Its  walls  are  draped  with  legends  woven  in  threads 

of  gold, 
Legends  beloved  in  dreamland,  in  the  tranquil  days 

of  old. 

Here  lies  the  Princess  sleeping  in  the  palace,  solemn 

and  still, 
And  knight  and  countess  slumber;   and  even  the 

noisy  rill 
That  flowed  by  the  ancient  tower,  has  passed  on  its 

way  to  the  sea, 
And  the  deer  are  asleep  in  the  forest,  and  the  birds 

are  asleep  in  the  tree. 

And  I  in  my  Castle  of  Silence,  in  my  chamber  of 
sleep  lie  down. 

Like  the  far-off  murmur  of  forests  come  the  turbu 
lent  echoes  of  town, 
231 


232          <3£|)t  chamber  ot  &Ieep 

And  the  wrangling  tongues  about  me  have  now  no 

power  to  keep 
My  soul   from  the   solace   exceeding  the  blessed 

Nirvana  of  sleep. 

Lower  the  portcullis  softly,  sentries,  placed  on  the 
wall; 

Let  shadows  of  quiet  and  silence  on  all  my  palace 
fall; 

Softly  draw  my  curtains.  .  .  .  Let  the  world 
labor  and  weep, — 

My  soul  is  safe  environed  by  the  walls  of  my  cham 
ber  of  sleep. 


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MAY    4    1936 

_EL_ 

4««  •*       ^  jk     ...    ._ 

,/,? 

MAR  19  1947 

--«.!»  

/ 

NOV2 

42005 

NOV 

252005 

LD  21-100m-7,'33 

YC   14455 

GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOQD67flfl7fl 


•ftfc.  4. 


. 


